


Dragon-Slayer

by Morgenleoht



Series: The Prices We Pay [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abandonment, Child Neglect, Crimes & Criminals, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Imprisonment, Multi, Religious Persecution, Torture, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 11:43:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12530548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgenleoht/pseuds/Morgenleoht
Summary: Erik the Slayer wanted to be an adventurer and hero of Skyrim.Be careful what you wish for. The gods might be listening...





	1. The Adventure Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Sequel to The Gathering Storm. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, torture, imprisonment, criminal acts, religious persecution, alcohol abuse, and mentions of child abuse/neglect/abandonment, child soldiers and genocide. Going with a completely unexpected Dragonborn.

 

So adventure wasn’t what it was cracked up to be, Erik decided as the wagon trundled towards Helgen. He’d finally talked his da into getting him armour; he already had the steel sword from Rorik last year. On his first adventure, tracking rumours of bandits in the Rift, he got captured by Imperials who refused to believe he wasn’t a Stormcloak. Or didn’t care. When his da died and got to Sovngarde, he was going to kick Erik’s arse.

            “I’m not a Stormcloak,” he told the heavy-shouldered, plain-faced Nord in a Quaestor’s red tunic riding rearguard behind the wagons. “My name’s Erik. From Rorikstead. I was tracking bandits in the Rift.”

            “Hadvar doesn’t give a fuck,” the handsome sun-blond Stormcloak sitting across from Erik said dryly. “He’s a good little soldier for the Empire.”

            “At least I’m not an idiot or a traitor, Ralof,” Hadvar said almost pleasantly.

            “Shut up back there,” yelled the driver from the front.

            “Or what, you’ll execute us?” Ralof laughed mirthlessly.

            Sitting diagonally across from Erik was Lokir, a drunk and thief Rorik chased out two years ago. The sharp scent of piss filled the air. “I don’t want to die! I’m not a traitor!”

            “It’s the carnificina,” Hadvar said in that soft gentle voice. “I’m sorry, kinsmen. Ulfric’s brought us to this pass.”

            “Or maybe you could show a little mercy?” Erik asked hopefully. “Honestly, I was just trying to be an adventurer. I was going through Darkwater Crossing because Anneke said there were bandits. Really.”

            “I’ll see what I can do,” Hadvar said with a sigh. “If not… Your sacrifice is appreciated.”

            Erik had never really thought about the Legion versus Stormcloak thing. He’d been busy tending crops and chopping firewood until recently, dreaming of glory and adventure. Talos and the gods – they didn’t mean much to him. It’d been sinew and spell that built Rorikstead, not blessings from god or demon. High King Torygg and Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak were just distant figures to him. Even Balgruuf, his Jarl, was fairly irrelevant to his life.

            He sighed and leaned back in his seat. Laina had told him to wait a couple days but no, he knew better than Rorik and Jouane’s daughter. Now he was going to die kissing the headsman’s bride. If he was lucky. Crucifixion, whatever that was, sounded painful.

            He would have liked to tell his da that he was right about staying in Rorikstead.

            The wagon rolled under the gate, where the stocky figure of General Tullius squared off against the tall golden one of a Thalmor. “They’re traitors and will be executed as such,” the General told the Altmer. “So no, your request is denied.”

            “Very well,” the Thalmor said coolly. “I suppose the Empire can execute heretics as well as we can.”

            “Better,” Tullius said. “We don’t torture them.”

            Suddenly, execution seemed like a really good option.

            Everyone was sorted into two lines. Surprise, the gagged man was Ulfric Stormcloak. Lokir ran and got shot in the back for his troubles. When Erik was called forward, Hadvar looked at the Tribune. “Ma’am, this boy says he was a novice adventurer tracking bandits in the Rift.”

            “He goes to the block,” the Tribune said grimly.

            “By your order.” Hadvar sighed and looked at Erik. “Sorry, kinsman. I’ll see Rorik gets your remains.”

            “Fuck you and fuck the Stormcloaks,” Erik said, figuring he’d go out with some strong words.

            Hadvar smiled wryly. “That’s the spirit.”

            _Arsehole._

            Some Stormcloak interrupted last rites and marched forward, volunteering to get his head cut off first. The executioner obliged and Erik vomited when he saw the man’s head roll away.

            “Next prisoner: Erik of Rorikstead.”

            Erik pissed himself but marched up. Oh shit this was it. He hoped Ma was in Sovngarde.

            Then a big black dragon showed up.

            Yep, adventure was definitely not what it was cracked up to be.

…

Laina was pruning her apple trees when the dragon swooped overhead, roaring loud enough to shatter the sky. He was big and black and spiky. He was, according to memories she did her best to suppress, the sign of the end times.

            Not three hours and five bottles of hard cider later, Erik was banging on her door asking for help. With him was a man who she hadn’t seen for nearly twenty years. She blinked, certain she was drunk. No. It was definitely Erik (the Slayer) and Ralof of Riverwood.

            “Did you have something to do with that?” she asked, pointing at the sky.

            “Yes! Er, well, no.” Erik shuffled awkwardly. He smelt like piss. “So, the Legion was about to execute me-“

            “I thought you were becoming a sellsword, not a bloody Stormcloak!”

            “It was the carnificina, Laina,” Ralof interjected hoarsely. “Hadvar rounded us all up, even those who were just passing through.”

            “You two know each other?” Erik’s eyeballs were flicking back and forth between them.

            “We did our ice wraith hunt together,” Laina said testily, stepping away from the door. “Get the hell inside before the Legion shows up.”

            She drank a poison cure to purge the alcohol from her system and promptly threw up in the bucket, as was always the way. Once she was done, Erik handed her a cup of water. He was always a good boy. Too good for the life of a mercenary, honestly.

            “So the dragon showed up as I was about to die and tracked me across Helgen, I swear,” Erik said as Ralof finished her bottle of cider. “We got away. Like I was gonna trust Hadvar after he told me my sacrifice was appreciated.”

            “We warned Gerdur at Riverwood and Erik wanted to stop here on the way to Whiterun,” Ralof said softly. “But I guess you already saw the dragon.”

            “Yeah, and promptly got drunk. I didn’t want to go down the World-Eater’s throat sober.” She sighed mournfully. “You had to go ruin that for me, didn’t you?”

            “Sorry,” Erik and Ralof said in unison.

            She took a mouthful of water and spat the taste of vomit from her mouth into the clay basin she used for waste water to use on her flowers. “I better go with you two. Being in Ralof’s presence around Balgruuf’s likely to get you thrown in prison, him being exiled and all.”

            “I’m _still_ exiled?” Ralof asked in astonishment.

            “Yes. Balgruuf didn’t like the idea of Ulfric’s right-hand man having freedom of movement in Whiterun, I guess.” Laina sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “First Ulfric goes and kills Torygg and now this. 4E 202 has not been my year.”

            “Torygg was a milk-drinking puppet of the Empire!” Ralof retorted.

            “Torygg was a boy-king holding a butter knife who was murdered in front of his pregnant wife,” Laina reminded him acidly. “I’m no fan of the Legion but… Kyne. It wasn’t a duel, it was a massacre.”

            She grabbed her cloak, tails of hair swinging over her shoulders. “So Ulfric kills the High King and the World-Eater returns. What else could go wrong?”

            The giant trampling Severio Pelagia’s fields. Laina cursed and began to call fire… Only for Erik to scream “Glory or Sovngarde” and run headlong into danger with nothing more than a lousy iron axe.

            He hamstrung it, giving Farkas of the Companions the chance to run it through. Of course, the big man being almost a giant himself, the behemoth died shortly afterward. Aela the Huntress directed the whelp accompanying them to hack the beast’s toes off. Such was the life of an apprentice Companion.

            “First a dragon, now a fucking giant,” Laina sighed. “If Mehrunes Dagon shows up, I’m throwing myself into a vat of cider.”

            “You saw it too, huh?” Farkas wandered over to them. “Hi Ralof. Aren’t you exiled?”

            “Apparently,” Ralof drawled.

            “You handle yourself well,” Aela was telling Erik. “You could make for a decent Shield-Brother.”

            “Me? A _Companion_?” Erik’s eyes went wide as gourds.

            “Possibly,” Aela said gently. “It’d be up to the Harbinger.”

            “The Harbinger-“

            “Yes.”

            “Uh, we better warn Jarl Balgruuf first. But I’m going to Jorrvaskr afterwards.” Erik was practically jumping up and down in excitement. “Me? A Companion!”

            Laina rubbed her aching temples. This wasn’t just not her year. This wasn’t her fucking decade.

…

Irkand Aurelius was consulting with Balgruuf when Laina walked in, accompanied by Ulfric’s errand-boy Ralof and an enthusiastic young redhead who smelt of piss, blood and spices. “Jarl,” the apple farmer said, jerking her thumb at the duo. “Erik of Rorikstead and Ralof of Riverwood said they were at Helgen when the World-Eater attacked. I figured the news was worth bringing the exile before you.”

            “The World-Eater?” Balgruuf said, blinking.

            “Big? Black? Daedric spikes of damnation?” Laina sounded exhausted and smelt of vomit and alcohol. “I saw him myself.”

            “Why didn’t you come immediately?” Balgruuf asked sharply.

            “Because I didn’t want to die sober,” she said dryly.

            “I can’t exactly argue with that,” Balgruuf muttered under his breath. “So, Erik of Rorikstead?”

            “Erik the Slayer. Umm, that’s my adventurer name, Jarl Balgruuf,” Erik said nervously. “I got caught up in the carnificina because the Empire wanted to make a clean sweep of Ulfric and Ralof and them, even though I was chasing bandits. I was about to get my head cut off when the dragon attacked. I went with Ralof because the Stormcloaks weren’t trying to execute me. The dragon followed me until I got into the keep. I actually nearly touched his wing-tip.”

            “Enough.” Balgruuf sighed and rubbed his eyes. “First a civil war and now a dragon. Irkand, you were a Blade and now are the Harbinger. Any suggestions?”

            “Send this young adventurer to Bleak Falls Barrow for the Dragonstone,” Irkand suggested calmly. “It was an old burial map and aside from the draugr and a few bandits, there isn’t much to get him killed up there.”

            “The Harbinger’s given me a job! Does this make me a Companion?” Erik asked Laina.

            “It makes you a whelp… If you survive.” Irkand smiled thinly. “Anyone with the courage to call himself Slayer will find it a relatively easy task.”

            “Speak to Farengar, my court wizard,” Balgruuf ordered Erik. “He can tell you more.”

            “Yes, Jarl.” Erik saluted. Poorly. Then he walked into the wizard’s office just off the Great Hall.

            Laina’s eyes flickered between Balgruuf and Irkand. “I’ve known that boy all my life. Are you _trying_ to get him killed?”

            “He survived Helgen,” Irkand said simply. “And we can hardly ask Ralof for help. That would mean we owe Ulfric.”

            “Did Ulfric survive Helgen?” Balgruuf asked with a sigh.

            “Of course he did.” Ralof spoke with more conviction than truth. “You think the World-Eater would kill him that easily?”

            “No,” Balgruuf said dryly. “We wouldn’t be that lucky.”

            “You mean _unlucky,_ ” Laina said softly. “It’s the Stormsword you have to watch out for.”

            Irkand looked sharply at her. How much did she remember?

            Balgruuf sighed. “True enough, Laina. I need your and Ralof’s reports for the archives. Everything you know. If it is the World-Eater-“

            “It is,” Laina said grimly. “I’ve read the old legends.”

            “Well, we’ll need to hope and pray the Dragonborn comes,” Balgruuf said with another sigh.

            “Pray they’re not worse than the World-Eater,” Irkand murmured. He could think of a few people who shouldn’t have a dragon’s soul. Himself being one of them.

            He looked over at Erik (the Slayer) and wondered.


	2. Preparations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, desecration of corpses, child soldiers and mentions of religious persecution, suicide, genocide and war crimes. ‘Taking the piss’ is an Aussie phrase meaning ‘mocking someone or making a fool of them’.

 

The Harbinger himself gave Erik a job. Not just any job, but one that could help save Skyrim from the dragon. That Laina called the World-Eater.

            “First stop, the Temple of Arkay,” Laina said, having taken charge of preparations for the trip. “Danica’s better at raw Restoration but really, you need just a blessing on your sword that’ll burn the undead.”

            Erik cast a sidelong glance at Rorik and Jouane’s daughter. “How do you know so much about adventuring?”

            “Fuck all,” she admitted wryly. “But you’d be surprised how often Balgruuf’s dispatched me to deal with arcane problems he can’t spare Farengar for. Some of them involved necromancers, draugr and vampires.”

            “But you don’t look like a great mage,” Erik said plaintively. Great mages wore silk robes embroidered with arcane symbols, not a sleeveless cotton shift-dress, leather bodice vest and wool cloak in drab browns.

            “Great mages get involved in great adventures, which generally end in great funerals,” Laina said dryly. “All I’ve ever wanted is to tend to my crops and live in peace, Erik.”

            “But-“ Erik shut his mouth as they entered the Temple of Arkay.

            “Oh, thank Arkay you’ve arrived, Laina,” said the old priest sitting on a bench. “I left my Amulet of Arkay down there and I think the draugr are stirring.”

            “Looks like you get a practice run, Erik,” Laina informed him ruefully. “Andurs, bless his sword? He’s off on a quest to find the Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow but we can save your Amulet first.”

            “Why do you sound like you’re taking the piss out of me?” Erik asked.

            “I am,” Laina admitted. “The other option is to run screaming off a cliff because it’s the end of days.”

            “That doesn’t sound good,” Andurs observed. “Give me your sword, young man.”

            Erik handed over the good steel blade Balgruuf gave him for warning Whiterun. Ralof got an escort to the border. Andurs muttered a few words, golden light sinking from his hands into the sword, and handed it back to him. “Go forth and slay the dead. Er, more than they already are.”

            A few dead bodies. He was an adventurer. Adventurers killed draugr all the time. Erik strode towards the catacombs. He wouldn’t fail Father Andurs.

…

“How much cider did you have today?” Laina asked the priest once Erik was gone.

            “I might have had a bit,” he admitted unhappily. “I had to bury young Jory from Heljarchen today. I helped bring him into this world.”

            Laina closed her eyes. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

            “It’s this civil war. There was an ugly ambush at Giant’s Gap…” Andurs studied his wrinkled hands. Arkay was the god of birth and death and so His priests served as birth attendants _and_ tenders of the dead. “Imperials attacked a Stormcloak force.”

            “Who won?”

            “To hear Jory’s brother tell it, the battle was a stalemate.”

            “Like this bloody war.” Laina placed a hand on Andurs’ shoulder sympathetically. “I wish I could say it would get better but with the return of the dragons…”

            “It’s the end of the world.” Andurs’ smile was crooked.

            “Well, the Dragonborn’s supposed to save us all. Here’s to hoping they aren’t another Talos.”

            “On that we can agree, Laina. On that we can agree.”

…

The skeletons were brittle and yellow with age, animated by ancient magic, and Erik’s priest-blessed sword shattered them easily. He piled the broken bits separately to make Andurs’ job of putting them back in the grave easier. He found a book that looked interesting, some tarnished silverware that wasn’t worth a lot and a brilliant pink gem in a golden case. He had to remind himself that this was a temple and therefore not a place for an adventurer to take stuff.

            The Amulet was warm under his fingertips and as he left, one final skeleton lumbered out. He killed it and then glanced at the alcove where it came from. A body of a youth, ice wraith scars still fresh on his corpse, lay out on a stone slab with various bits that should really be inside stored inside him put instead in rough terracotta dishes. Bloodstained Imperial armour was stacked to the side, to be repaired and returned to the family, and from the looks of it a giant axe had damn near cleaved him in two.

            The Empire would have executed him to secure the peace. The Stormcloaks had killed this kid because he’d probably followed his da into the Legion.

            Erik swallowed back vomit and hurried out. And now dragons, even the World-Eater that was supposed to… well… eat the world was involved.

            He found Andurs praying at the shrine of Arkay, Laina sitting at the bench with a look of infinite sorrow on her face. Erik vaguely remembered that Laina had been orphaned during the Great War and found at the side of the road by Rorik and Jouane. No wonder she hated war and preferred her apple trees.

            “I got it,” he said hoarsely.

            “You saw Jory, eh?” Andurs asked, rising to his feet and correctly reading the reason for Erik’s expression. “As an adventurer, lad, you’ll see a lot more corpses. You’ll make a fair few of them yourself.”

            “I killed people in Helgen!” Erik blurted. “Imperials were trying to stop Stormcloaks and…”

            “Violence is often necessary,” Andurs said sadly, wrapping an arm around Erik and letting the boy weep into his shoulder. “Even in times of peace, we have bandits, necromancers and Daedric cultists.”

            “The Forsworn used to raid us a lot,” Erik said, wiping at his face when he was done.

            “They were raiding for food,” Laina said quietly. “That’s why Rorik left caches of our old grain and vegetables. Jouane’s from the Western Reach and…”

            She shrugged. “The Stormcloaks were embittered by the Markarth Incident because Hrolfdir used them to put down the Forsworn who were reclaiming their home from the invading Nords and then handed them over to the Imperials.”

            “On the other hand, the Great War was a necessary war,” Andurs sighed. “I became a priest of Arkay during those years. The Thalmor were… brutal.”

            “Titus Mede won the war and lost the peace,” Laina added with a sigh of her own. “Now we have the civil war in Skyrim.”

            She handed Erik some water as he had earlier. “I think I understand why you prefer your apple trees now,” he confessed. “I’m sorry for being an arse.”

            Laina looked surprised. “You weren’t. A lot of people ask me the same thing. Maybe one day, I’ll tell you about the time I went to the College of Winterhold.”

            Erik didn’t even know she’d left Whiterun Hold, let alone gone to the mages’ school. He handed the Amulet to Andurs. “Umm, I piled the bones separately. You know, so you can bury them.”

            “Bless you.” Andurs smiled a little sadly. “There are good reasons to fight too, Erik. The Companions do so to protect and keep the peace. Laina and I once cleared out a coven of necromancers on the border with the Pale who… well, they weren’t nice people.”

            “Lu’ah al-Skaven at Anvilsund,” Laina said grimly. “Even the Stormsword refused her help.”

            Before he could ask how she knew that, the woman changed the subject. “I have some credit with Adrianne Avenicci, the smith at the gate. You need new armour before you head up to Bleak Falls Barrow.”

            Erik glanced down at the Stormcloak armour he was wearing. It was like guard armour but with the dusty-blue mantle of Eastmarch. “Could I trade this?”

            “Easily. That’s one less set Adrianne has to make for the guard.” Laina nodded to Andurs, who’d put his Amulet back on. “Gods with you, Andurs.”

            “One of them is,” he smiled. “Arkay with you two.”

            They left the Temple and Erik welcomed the sunlight on his face after the dank catacombs and dim chapel. “You never told us about… stuff.”

            “About being one of Balgruuf’s agents? It was need to know. Rorik and Jouane knew, because they’re part of the main defence on the north-western border.” Laina sighed and glanced at the dead Gildergreen. “I don’t always like the Jarl and he knows it. But until Ulfric murdered Torygg, he was the only thing keeping the balance in Skyrim. Now, I’m wagering he’ll be the only Jarl worrying about the dragons.”

            “Why’d you settle down here anyways?” Erik asked as they rounded the tree. A little girl was begging. She reminded him of Sissel and Britte back home.

            “Balgruuf’s orders.” Laina chuckled wryly. “I made him pay for it. Imported apple and plum saplings, exotic berries, workers during the first few years… Still cheaper than hiring a mercenary mage or the Companions, I suppose.”

            She nodded up at Jorrvaskr. “Do you want to talk to the Harbinger before or after you go to Bleak Falls Barrow?”

            “After,” he said firmly. “I want to prove I can be a whelp.”

            She nodded again and led him through the Plains District down to Warmaiden’s. Adrianne Avenicci, the daughter of the Steward up at Dragonsreach, was a solid woman with broad shoulders who handled a hammer big enough to make Farkas wince. “I don’t serve Stormcloaks, Laina,” she said.

            “He escaped with them during Helgen,” Laina said quietly. “Seeing as he was nearly executed as part of the carnificina.”

            “Ulfric’s brought Tullius to that level? Stendarr preserve us.” Adrianne sighed. “He’s familiar.”

            “Erik the Slayer. Uh, that’s my adventurer name.”

            Adrianne raised her eyebrows at Laina, who said wryly, “Don’t look at me, Adri. He’s Mralki’s boy from Rorikstead who’s doing a job for the Jarl.”

            The words magically transformed the smith’s attitude. “What happened to the iron plate your Da had made for you?”

            “The Empire took it,” Erik admitted sourly.

            “The Empire did you a favour, m’boy,” Adrianne said, reaching for a knotted leather thong. “You’re a Plainsman through and through for all that Reacher-red hair. Light armour’s the go for you.”

            “It _was_ easier in the Stormcloak stuff,” he admitted. “Umm, Laina said you could take it in trade?”

            “Add it to the credit I have with you,” Laina told the smith. “We Roriksteaders stick together and I don’t fancy telling his Da I let him get skewered by a draugr because he didn’t have decent armour.”

            “We’re running low on snowberry wine anyway, so I’ll stand you that if it means I don’t have to pay for a few bottles,” Adrianne grinned.

            “Oh, I’ll need my pruning hooks sharpened soon for the harvest,” Laina agreed with a wry smile. “Three hooks for a bottle?”

            “Works for me.”

            “Throw in your husband for a day or so and I’ll add a barrel of cider.”

            Adrianne smirked. “You really need to get married, Laina, so you’ve got some muscle around the farm.”

            “Why bother when it’s cheaper to trade cider for it?”

            The blacksmith shook her head and gestured to Erik. “Lose the gambeson.”

            “The-? Oh.” He learned a new word today and took the Stormcloak armour off.

            She measured him briskly with a knotted thong – arms, torso, shoulders, thighs and calves – and made cryptic noises. When she was done, she looked to Laina. “I’m thinking steel chainmail,” she said.

            “Shirt or vest…?” Laina rubbed the back of her neck.

            “I’ve got some Yokudan chainmail made up.”

            “Hmm, no. Alik’r are causing trouble and Erik doesn’t need an overzealous guard shooting him by mistake.” She pursed her lips. “Maybe leather?”

            Adrianne snapped her fingers. “I have just the thing.” She entered her shop and emerged about five minutes later with a leather jacket, breeks and boots with padded shoulders and knees. “I got this from a friend. She said it wasn’t to her taste.”

            “Oh dear,” Laina said. “That’s Guild armour. They’re not as touchy about it as the Companions are about Wolf Armour, but…”

            “But?” Erik asked. It looked nice and comfortable.

            “If you go to Riften, you’ll be mistaken for a Thief,” Laina said simply. “But unless we can find some Bosmeri scout armour or Nordic chainmail, it’ll be the best you can get at the moment.”

            “I’m not selling Bosmeri scout armour for what you’d want to pay,” Adrianne said firmly. “That’s got moonstone in it.”

            “And Nordic chainmail would take too long,” Laina agreed wryly. “Erik, you’re wearing it. What do you think?”

            “I’ll take it. Looks about my size.” Everyone knew that adventurers started out with what they could get and worked up to the fine armour.

            It fit like a glove. “Why do Thieves need armour?” he asked Laina as Adrianne adjusted various straps and buckles.

            “Because pickpocketing and lockpicking are only a third of what they do,” she said. “They need tough armour that’s flexible and stealthy.”

            “I once handled a set of Dark Brotherhood armour,” Adrianne said. “It felt… _wrong_.”

            Erik shuddered. Daedric assassins and Thieves armour. Life as an adventurer wasn’t what the storybooks painted it to be.

            “Now, being a Plainsman, you’ll be a better skirmisher than anything else,” Adrianne said. “I recommend a bow and arrows.”

            “Rorik trained me a bit. I’m better with a two-handed sword than a one-handed weapon,” Erik said. “Uh, not that this sword is bad but…”

            “I have a well-sharpened iron greatsword,” Adrianne said.

            “I’ll take it.” He remembered Rorik’s maxim that better a weapon of lesser material you were comfortable with than one of better material you didn’t know how to use.

            Adrianne knew her work. The iron greatsword was well-balanced and sharp. “I should probably get this blessed by Andurs.”

            “Good idea. He forgot to pay you.” Laina folded her arms. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

            Erik knew and dashed off. He felt so much freer in this leather armour. Even if it _was_ Thief armour.

…

Laina watched Erik run through the crowd and sighed. Mralki had deliberately bought the heavy armour to dissuade his son. She understood the sentiment but…

            “How much will it cost me?” she asked Adrianne.

            “I haven’t been able to sell it for obvious reasons, so we’ll just use all the credit you’ve built up and maybe a barrel of cider,” the smith replied. “Is he really working for Balgruuf?”

            “More like he’s being sent to Bleak Falls Barrow at the suggestion of the Harbinger to find the Dragonstone, which is reportedly a map of dragon burial sites,” Laina explained.

            “Irkand never sets a job like that without a reason,” Adrianne observed.

            “Don’t let Erik’s youth fool you. He survived Helgen.”

            “Int-er-est-ing.” Adrianne drew the word out. “You think he’ll join the Companions?”

            “Apparently this is the test of a whelp.”

            Adrianne’s eyebrows hit her hairline. “Laina, prospective whelps square off against Vilkas, not go crawling through draugr-infested tombs.”

            “He hamstrung a giant on the way here,” Laina added with a sigh. “Erik’s… enthusiastic.”

            “He’s either gonna get songs written about him or a lovely grave somewhere,” Adrianne said dryly.

            “Mralki’s gonna kill me,” Laina muttered. “That’s unless the dragons don’t get us first.”


	3. The First Adventure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, desecration of corpses and mentions of war crimes.

 

Erik was walking towards the inn at Riverwood, called the Sleeping Giant for some reason, when Hadvar blocked his path. “Thief armour, eh?” the Quaestor asked.

            “It was the only armour I could get since you took mine,” Erik said flatly. “Go ask Adrianne Avenicci at Warmaiden’s in Whiterun if you don’t believe me.”

            Hadvar held his hands up. “Easy, Erik. You shouldn’t have been on that wagon in the first place. Even General Tullius wasn’t happy about the carnificina.”

            “So why’d he do it?” Erik demanded.

            “Because it was part of a three-pronged attack to counter the Stormcloaks’ advance into western Skyrim,” Hadvar said calmly. “That force Ulfric was leading? It was going to cut through the Jerall Mountains to take Falkreath.”

            “Just like the one at Giant’s Gap was gonna take Whiterun, huh?”

            Hadvar blinked. “How-?”

            “Saw one of the Imperial dead in the Temple of Arkay. Jory, I think his name was.”

            The Quaestor closed his eyes in grief. “Dammit! He was a scout. His da was my drill Quaestor in Solitude.”

            “Welp, he’s dead now.” Erik shook his head in disgust. “You woulda killed me without giving a damn, Hadvar. Why?”

            “Because we needed Ulfric dead and buried before the Stormsword or the Stone-Fist knew what was going on,” Hadvar answered with the ring of honesty. “That meant bringing everyone in and killing them. It’s brutal. It’s ugly. But you have no idea what the Stormcloaks have been doing over in the Old Holds to secure power.”

            “Someone I knew said it was the Stormsword you have to watch out for,” Erik said slowly. Why was everything so confusing and complex?

            “A very clever someone you know,” Hadvar said. “Ulfric’s charismatic and dangerous. Galmar is an excellent… Legate, I guess you say, and he’s the Jarl’s muscle. But Sigdrifa… She’s cold and mean, Erik. A fanatic. And Rikke, my immediate commander and the Legate Primus of Skyrim? She says the Stormsword is her equal in tactics.”

            “Rikke’s a legend,” Erik said softly.

            “She is. She’s been my mentor since I was fifteen, fresh off an ice wraith hunt.” Hadvar smiled fondly. “More like a ma to me, really, even if she won’t say so.”

            “Maybe you’re the disappointment of the family,” Erik joked. “Gods know it’s like that with me and my Da.”

            “Uncle Alvor was a bit unhappy I decided to stay past my initial enlistment. I think he wanted someone to take over the forge.” Hadvar shrugged those heavy shoulders. “My Da was Tribune of Helgen until recently. His aide Iulia… She was the one who sent you to the block. Good woman but… Yeah. She has – _had_ – no regrets about her job.”

            “Ralof killed her,” Erik said.

            “No surprise.” Hadvar sighed. “I’m not surprised you chose to go with the Stormcloaks either. The Empire didn’t exactly make a good impression on you yesterday.”

            “Understatement of the Fourth Era,” Erik said dryly.

            “Yeah.” Hadvar smiled wryly. “I’m just hoping you might consider the Legion. You survived Helgen and we need… special operatives, guess you might say. Akatosh knows that the Stormsword has her own.”

            Erik held up his hand. “At the moment, I’m hoping to join the Companions.”

            Hadvar nodded with another sigh. “I can respect that. I guess you Roriksteaders never care about what’s beyond your fields. Laina’s much the same way and has been since her ice wraith hunt.”

            Erik’s eyes narrowed. “You, she and Ralof went on the same ice wraith hunt.”

            “So did Idolaf Battle-Born and Avulstein Grey-Mane. Didn’t you go out in a group?”

            “Nope. Was just me.”

            “Huh.” Something flickered in Hadvar’s eyes. “It… didn’t turn out well. Ralof was my childhood friend and he wound up exiled. Can’t say more than that.”

            “I remember Laina was really quiet for a while after it.” Erik shook his head. “I need to rest. I gotta go tomb-crawling tomorrow.”

            Hadvar stepped to the side. “Gods preserve you, Erik. Think on what I’ve said.”

            “Uh, yeah, sure. You too, Hadvar.” He headed up the stairs to the inn.

…

Hadvar returned to his uncle’s house, poured himself a flagon of mead and sat down by the fire to think. He needed to report back to Solitude soon. To General Tullius if he made it or Rikke if he didn’t.

            As competent as Tullius was, Hadvar found himself hoping for the latter. Rikke was Skyrim-born and understood the people in ways the Imperial Nutcracker couldn’t. Ulfric could use the carnificina as a means to convince the Nords that the Empire wanted to kill everyone who didn’t toe the line. Good idea to wipe out anyone who could warn the Stormcloaks in theory… Bad in execution because Tullius didn’t know Skyrim.

            _Might be time to dig up that body,_ he mused. Whiterun was the axis on which the war for Skyrim would turn. Balgruuf was becoming a liability. Hrongar was less canny… but he was more loyal to the Legion _and_ could be blackmailed, potentially. It was a dangerous game to play though.

            What worked in Falkreath to depose Dengeir wouldn’t work in Whiterun. Balgruuf only had three Thanes: Olfrid Battle-Born, already a loyalist; Vignar Grey-Mane, a Stormcloak kinsman of Ulfric’s who would likely be his pick for Jarl if the city was taken; and Rorik, who followed Whiterun’s policy of staunch neutrality. The franklins were a mixed bag who generally strove for whatever left them in peace and the only hetwoman of the Hold was Gerdur, Ralof’s sister and a staunch Stormcloak.

            _I might need to see if the Justicar’s still there,_ he thought. If blackmail was going to be the key to winning this Hold, he better make sure it was still there.

            He drained his mead and got up. Thought would become deed.

            It was dusk and a candle burned in the window of Snjobera Farm. Laina had fortified her land well, Hadvar had to admit as he crept towards the snowline, brushing against the snowberry hedge. Was the boulder intact? Yes, it was-

            An Ice Spike pinned his red Legion cloak to the ground, having just grazed his cheek. “Who’s there?” Laina demanded from the door.

            Hadvar cursed inwardly and tore his cloak free. If she figured out what he was looking for-

            The next Ice Spike landed uncomfortably close to his groin, right between his legs. If only the fucking battlemages at Helgen had this much accuracy!

            “I’m not trying to steal your apples, fool woman!” he hissed into the gathering darkness.

            “Hadvar?” Laina’s voice still had that Whiterun burr but had deepened pleasantly.

            He rose to his feet, hands held out. “I’m not trespassing, I promise. It’s Imperial business.”

            “You’re looking for the Thalmor bodies,” she said bluntly.

            “Well, yeah,” he admitted.

            “Good luck with that,” she said dryly. “They’re fertiliser now.”

            She came into view, a faintly turquoise light hovering around her head, and gestured to a pair of trees that hung with ripening yellow-gold apples. “Alinor Gold,” she said with more than a little irony in her voice. “It seemed appropriate.”

            Hadvar laughed a little at the joke. Then he sighed. “You’ve made things harder, Laina.”

            “You would have used the bodies as evidence of treason, Balgruuf would have denied it and pinned the murders solely on Ralof, and claimed I was persuaded to conceal them,” she said with crossed arms. “No one can prove anything now.”

            The Quaestor sighed explosively. He could follow her line of reasoning, selfish as it was. “We could have ended this war cleanly,” he said.

            “No. Torygg’s death didn’t end the war. The carnificina didn’t end it. And now we have dragons. Welcome to Evgir Unslaad, Hadvar. The Season Unending.” Laina sounded more unhappy than anything else. “You and the Stormcloaks will fight and fight as dragons ravage the lands. Maybe the Dragonborn will stop it. Maybe they won’t.”

            “Ulfric started this war.”

            “Technically, Tiber Septim did when he sent the Numidium to hammer the Altmer into submission,” Laina said softly.

            “Do you believe Talos is a god?” he asked.

            “If he is, he’s a right arsehole of one,” she replied. “If he isn’t, then he’s just a historical arsehole.”

            The farmer turned away. “I just want to grow my apples in peace.”

            “You may not get that option.”

…

Erik didn’t count on bandits being so close to the Barrow. Or having to kill them. The Imperial bow and steel arrows he bought from Alvor in Riverwood helped a lot and it was almost as easy as shooting deer. Maybe because they were murderous thieving bastards like the ones who raided Rorikstead, it was easy for him to shoot them stealthily.

            There were more bandits on the steps and in the Barrow itself. One was trapped by a big spider. He ran off and woke the draugr. He had Lucan’s missing golden claw on him. There were pictures on the top. He wondered what they meant.

            Erik was about three health potions when he came to the puzzle door. He looked at the claw imprint in the stone and realised that the golden claw he had was the key.

            Inside, there was another cave with a big stone coffin. Erik reminded himself to bathe in the water under the bridge because smelling like piss and draugr wasn’t a good way to prove he was an adventurer. He didn’t even realise that he’d done so during the past few hours. That was… embarrassing.

            There was a glowing word on the wall, one that entranced Erik. “Fus,” he breathed, a rushing sound filling his ears.

            Then he nearly got brained by the king-draugr. Cue a lot of running around, dodging a Shout that nearly knocked him on his arse, and using the Fireball scrolls on it. When he told the story, he was going to skip the running around bit. It was mostly swing at each other until someone’s greatsword connected. Erik won because of Arkay’s blessing but his wounds burned from the draugr’s frost-enchanted sword. He decided to take it and the burial goods beside it.

            It was a long trudge back to Riverwood. He touched the Warrior Stone again for good luck, watching blue light spear into the sky.

            Lucan gave him coin. More coin than he’d ever seen. All for one golden claw. The shopkeeper also bought the jewellery and uncut gems from the Barrow. Camilla kissed him on the cheek and Erik blushed.

            Maybe being an adventurer was like in the storybooks.

            Alvor took the few decent weapons from the bandits, trading for more arrows and an Orcish bow. Erik decided to return to Whiterun because the Dragonstone was _heavy._

It was dusk when he got to the city gates.

            “So you survived, boy.” Irkand Aurelius emerged from the shadows by the gate. Most of the Circle wore the iconic Wolf Armour, black-enamelled Skyforge Steel, but the Harbinger wore chainmail so fine it looked knitted with plates of black enamelled steel. Judging by his stocky physique, he was in better shape than men half his age. “An interesting mix of tactics in the Barrow.”

            “Wait, you followed me?”

            The Redguard smiled thinly. “Did you expect otherwise?”

            He turned for the gates. “We better get that Dragonstone to Farengar. An old friend’s arrived to help with the translation. Or to cause trouble. She’s like that.”

            Irkand’s old friend was a sharp-faced Breton woman with long grey-blonde hair in as good shape as he. “So you survived Helgen and the Barrow, huh?” she asked in a brusque accent unlike any he’d heard before.

            “I got lucky,” he said.

            “He’s not entirely stupid,” Irkand observed dryly. “Willing to mix up his tactics. Sometimes, as I like to tell the Hero-Twins and Skjor, a headlong rush isn’t the best way to deal with threats.”

            “I thought it was ‘Glory or Sovngarde’ for Nords?” the Breton woman asked dryly.

            “I’m not a Nord, dear. I’m a little more sensible.”

            “And not all Nords consider ‘Glory or Sovngarde’ a valid tactic in the face of danger,” Farengar said. “Give me the Dragonstone.”

            Him and the Breton leaned over the Dragonstone and compared it to a modern map of Skyrim on the wall next to Farengar and an old book. “…Clearly First Era terminology…”

            Erik looked away, bored.

            Irkand tapped him on the shoulder and jerked his chin at the Great Hall. Erik followed the Harbinger with some relief.

            “Did anything else happen, Erik?” he asked quietly. “The old tombs, they are… strange. Especially Dragon Cult ones.”

            “Dragon Cult?” Erik asked, flinching at the question. He remembered the glowing word that nearly got him killed. It still lingered on his tongue, trying to get out.

            “Dragons ruled mortals once. Then three Nords – Felldir, Hakon and Gormlaith – rebelled against the World-Eater with the help of some sympathetic dragons. They succeeded in breaking Alduin’s power by banishing him somehow. But for many years – centuries – dragons lingered and fought back.” Irkand looked over his shoulder at Farengar. “Some mortals worshipped the dragons. Others rebelled. A few crossed the seas to hunt them down and serve a greater prophecy.”

            “People hunted dragons… like deer?” Erik could barely believe it after the massacre at Helgen.

            Irkand’s mouth quirked into a smile. “It was a force of Akaviri warriors under the command of Versidue-Shaie, the Tsaesci snake-man, and Goruden, the commander of the Dragonguard. They rode red dragons, long since broken to harness, and wore armour as sleek as a snake’s scales.”

            Erik had heard vague legends about the Akaviri. “Uh, I see.”

            “No, you don’t.” Irkand’s smile deepened a little. “Not yet.”

            The Harbinger looked over the Great Hall. “The Akaviri fought their way across Skyrim until they reached the Pale Pass, where Reman Cyrodiil, the second known Dragonborn and heir to St. Alessia, waited for them. They battled until it was discovered Reman was what they sought – a Dragonborn, one to keep the dragons down. The Dragonguard swore fealty and were given lands around Bruma, the Reach and other parts of the Empire. They hunted dragons down and buried them. Eventually, they morphed into the Empire’s personal bodyguard. Then the Potentate Versidue-Shaie’s. During the Second Era, they stayed out of the fighting and lost much of their purpose without Dragon-Blooded Emperors to serve.”

            “They became the Blades!” Erik blurted.

            “When Talos came, yes. The Stormcrown. Guroden’s bloodline had become one of the Four Great Clans of Cyrodiil, the families that could derive their ancestry back to Reman’s time, and in recognition of his Akaviri name… They became known as the Aurelii, the Golden Ones.”

            Irkand sighed. “We were masterless and Talos needed loyal minions. We served the Septims well and the Hero of Kvatch, Aurelia Northstar, was one of ours. Then Martin died and we found ourselves masterless once more. It ended… badly. My father rebelled at the White-Gold Concordat and Titus Mede used the Thalmor to destroy most of the Blades.”

            “So you’re looking for a Dragonborn to serve? I thought the Companions didn’t serve anyone.”

            “We don’t.” Irkand smiled wryly. “None of the surviving Aurelii consider themselves Blades anymore, thank the gods. My brother and nephew are loyal to Hammerfell, as the Redguards are quite pragmatic when it comes to talent. I became the Harbinger, a fact that still surprises me as I was trained as an assassin.”

            Erik blinked. “But your honour’s obvious, sir. Can’t you see that?”  
            “No eye is so sharp that it can see itself,” the Breton said as she sauntered over. “How was Bleak Falls Barrow?”

            “Weird. The draugr weren’t the least of it.” Erik rubbed his eyes. “This word glowed in a wall of strange script. ‘Fus’, it was. It means ‘force’.”

            “That _is_ strange,” Irkand murmured. His Breton friend looked immensely satisfied.

            Then Irileth strode into the room. “A dragon’s attacking the Western Watchtower! To arms, to arms!”

            Irkand arched an eyebrow at her. “Is it black and spiky?”

            “No, more of a bronze colour.”

            “Good.” Irkand’s smile was grim. “Come on, Erik the Slayer. You’re a whelp of the Companions now and we have a dragon to bag.”

            Erik nodded weakly. He could hardly say no. He just hoped he didn’t die.


	4. The Chosen One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. NPCs mostly level with you in game for balance purposes, but in this story, many of them are badasses and it shows.

 

Dragons were terrifying. Laina had barely changed into a set of robes and jewellery she saved for emergencies when the beast swooped down on the hapless guards patrolling the road, setting them on fire. It sailed towards the Western Watchtower, roaring a challenge, and Laina allowed herself a moment to curse vociferously. Hadn’t Winterhold been enough for one lifetime?

            Nevertheless, she ran towards the watchtower as horns rang out across Whiterun.

            The dragon swooped twice to roast guards trying to run for the city. Hroki and Tor, if she recalled correctly. They patrolled her orchard boundaries sometimes.

            By the time she got there, Irileth and several others were halfway to the scene, Aela and Irkand streaming out ahead of them all because of lighter armour. “I hope that canis root and imp stool mixture of yours works,” the Huntress was saying to the Harbinger.

            “It hasn’t failed yet,” he replied breathlessly. “If we can keep the damned beast paralysed…”

            “I’m not one for poison but-“ Aela stopped speaking on seeing the carnage.

            “But this is something beyond the typical threat to Skyrim,” Irkand finished grimly. Then he spotted Laina. “What in the name of Hircine are you doing here, girl?”

            She ignored him as the dragon came around for its second strafe. Then she launched the Paralysis spell, boosted by the numerous enchantments on her robes and jewellery. It struck the creature and sent it ploughing into the earth towards Fort Greymoor. Assuming Shouts were like magic, she dual-cast Thunderbolt, faintly turquoise lightning arcing from her hands to strike it.

            Aela took advantage of the dragon’s temporary paralysis to shoot out one eye. It roared in pain and Laina ducked behind the stone ramp to recharge her magicka. Her pool of energy wasn’t as deep as it could be, since she chose to focus on her orchards over her sorcery.

            Irileth followed her example by using Sparks to strike the dragon from a distance before utilising her powerful ebony bow. The Dunmer and Imperial whelps from the Companions did the same while the heavy hitters closed in to beat it down. Interestingly, Erik was using a bow himself. Maybe Bleak Falls Barrow taught him a little sense about charging into combat.

            It took four castings of Paralysis to kill the beast. Two guards died, Torvar the drunk whelp got injured, and the vaguely familiar innkeeper from Riverwood scored the final blow by throwing a spear through the dragon’s throat. Irkand looked chagrined about that, interestingly enough. Jealousy?

            “Let’s make sure that overgrown lizard is dead,” Irileth said.

            The dragon began to crack apart, sooty-edged flame peeling away flesh to show brown-grey bone. White-gold light rushed towards the whelps, cutting through a couple of them… and ending in Erik.

            _Oh hell._ Mralki was going to be _pissed._

            Erik promptly released a Shout that set the Harbinger on his arse, much to the amusement of Skjor and Aela.

            Then the Dragonborn, hero of prophecy, fainted.

…

“Have I ever told you how much I hate it when you’re right?” Delphine groused as they walked back to Whiterun.

            “Have I ever told you how much I hate it when you steal my kills?” Irkand retorted, rubbing his buttocks. Lovely, bruises. Sitting down was going to hurt for the next few days.

            Farkas and Vilkas carried Erik on a stretcher. Laina had done a quick check and decided he should go to the Temple of Kynareth to be sure. “It’s probably overload and shock,” she said with a shrug. “But Danica will know better than I. She’s one of the best healers in Skyrim.”

            “You never told me why you were out there,” Irkand observed mildly. His niece had no cause to be fighting dragons.

            “Because I’m probably the most powerful non-College mage in Whiterun,” Laina responded tartly. “I choose to be a farmer because I love the land. But it doesn’t mean I’ll ignore my duty to the Hold.”

            She walked ahead. “You have no right to ask me questions like that, Harbinger, because it’s none of your business.”

            “Traumatic amnesia,” Irkand muttered as Delphine raised an eyebrow. “She doesn’t remember anything of us and just enough about her mother to be wary. We decided it was kinder to leave her alone.”

            “I’d wondered.” Delphine sighed. “Shame. That kind of magic would be useful in-“

            “I know you keep your vows and I respect that,” Irkand interrupted. “But the Blades are dead or close enough to it. They should have ended or restructured themselves after the Oblivion Crisis.”

            “Dragons have returned… and we were once dragon-hunters,” Delphine countered. “I think of it as returning to our roots.”

            “And what will you do when there are no more dragons to kill?”

            Delphine was silent.

            A sick farmer was hustled off a stone bed in the Temple of Kynareth and Erik laid down. “Why do you put patients on stone?” he asked the acolyte.

            “Because there’s enchantments of peace and health on them,” the boy replied. “I’m not seeing a mark on this one.”

            “Dragonborn. Overwhelmed by the dragon soul,” Laina reported. “Shock, overload…”

            “Makes sense.” Danica, a handsome woman in her late thirties, placed hands on Erik’s head. The youth was muttering gutturally and twitching. “Get me hawk feathers and snowberries?”

            “Here.” The acolyte handed them over as another readied a small iron brazier embossed with hawks and a cloaked woman. Aromatic woods were placed inside and the entire thing lit by a casual wave of Danica’s hand before she tossed the feathers and berries into the fire.

            “Kynareth, Mother of Men, You Who gave men the Thu’um,” the Priestess intoned. “A son of Yours, Erik, struggles with the dragon soul. You Who protect hunters, grant him the wisdom to make use of what his prey gives him. You Who dwells in air, grant him the breath to Speak well. You Who named all things when Shor gave them form, grant this hunter a name.”

            _“DOVAHKIIN!”_ The expected Shout of the Greybeards rocked the world and Irkand grabbed a pillar to hold himself up.

            Oddly acrid smoke drifted around Erik, guided by hawk-feather fans in the hands of the acolytes, and he inhaled it. When he opened his eyes, they were slit as a dragon’s for a moment before returning to normal.

            “Dovahkiin,” he whispered. “I am… Dovahkiin.”

…

Laina handed Erik a bowl of her famous gruel. Blue mountain flowers and wheat sweetened with a little honey. He didn’t even complain because the faintly sweet taste soothed his sore throat.

            “I wanted to be an adventurer,” he finally said. “A hero. But not like this.”

            “Be careful what you wish for,” Laina said wryly. “You might just get it.”  
            Erik spat out a mouthful of gruel and laughed. Then he wiped his mouth and sighed. “Dad ain’t gonna be happy.”

            “Yeah.” She echoed the sigh. “I’ll go up to Rorikstead myself and let them know.”

            “I can go,” Erik pointed out.

            “You need to haul arse to High Hrothgar,” she countered. “That Shout was the Greybeards summoning you.”

            “Oh.” Erik ate a little more gruel. “The Harbinger was asking me about weird stuff in Bleak Falls Barrow before everything happened.”

            “He was a Blade,” Laina said quietly. “They used to serve the Dragonborn Emperors.”

            “Yeah, he told me the history.” Erik sighed again. “You think he knew?”

            “Probably. The World-Eater destroying Helgen to get to you makes sense.” Laina’s smile was rueful. “Thank the gods he was impatient. If he’d waited a few more minutes…”

            Erik shuddered. Then he, prophesised saviour of the world, began to cry. Someone like Irkand or even Laina should have been Dragonborn. Not him!

            Laina held him like his ma did when he had nightmares as a child. “Thanks,” he said through his sniffles. “Some hero I am, huh?”

            “If you took this in your stride, I’d be worrying about your sanity,” Laina told him gently. “Being told you’re the only one who can handle a world-shattering crisis when you’re young is… disconcerting.”

            Erik blinked at her. “What do you mean?”

            “I spent a winter at the College during the year I was setting up my farm. You remember how we used to reclaim land, right? Cover it in cow shit, grow winter rye and plough it into the dirt to feed the soil. Well, for several weeks, I had nothing to do so I decided to go to Winterhold like Jouane was always after me to.” Her smile was wryly chagrined. “There was fuck all in the Ysmir Collective about the use of magic in agriculture, I’m sad to say.”

            Erik laughed again. “Most people don’t use spells to grow plants.”

            “I don’t. Alteration can help speed up the soil reclamation process and force-grow seeds into something I can use. Restoration can keep the plants resistant to disease and bugs. But more than that throws everything out of balance.” Laina examined one of her strong olive-bronze hands. “Everything me, Reldith and Jouane did at Rorikstead can be done by non-mages. It just takes longer and more effort to do so.”

            “Huh.” Erik rubbed the back of his neck. “Magic makes me nervous.”

            “Well, if we’re being technical, you’re now a mage,” Laina said. “The Thu’um, if not magic, is something very much like it.”

            “So, uh, Winterhold,” Erik said, wanting to shy away from that thought.

            “I show up, get enrolled as an apprentice, demonstrate some magic… And then get dispatched to Saarthal because the mages were looking at early Atmoran magic. Tolfdir and his apprentice Onmund had a keen interest in the Clever Craft, the Nordic tradition of magic.” Laina smiled slightly as Erik’s jaw dropped. “Yes, we have a tradition that was nearly lost.”

            “Was… nearly lost?”

            “I’ll get to that. So me and Onmund are going through the catacombs and we break a seal.” Laina grimaced. “I’ll spare you the details, but we found the likely reason that the Falmer tried to wipe out the Nords of Saarthal. So did the Thalmor. It took the combined efforts of the College, four Psijic Monks – they’re like Altmer Greybeards and the Thalmor hate them like Lemkil hates a bath – and me to stop them.” The tone of her voice was a lot like his Da’s when the old man talked about war. “The Arch-Mage, the Master Wizard, two members of the senior faculty and an apprentice died over the course of seven weeks. But we stopped the Thalmor and deactivated what they were using.”

            “Oh.” What could Erik say?

            “They made Onmund Arch-Mage and Tolfdir Master Wizard. One sets the general policy for the College, handles the politics and mediates disputes while the other gets everything done.” Laina smiled slightly. “Onmund was barely eighteen at the time but had already mastered his family’s fishing and hunting magics. As a worshipper of the old god Jhunal, he was keen to revive magic as a tradition among Nords. So far, he’s doing pretty well.”

            “Uh, Jhunal?” At least this was distracting him from the Dragonborn stuff.

            “God of magic and cleverness. The Imperials turned Him into Julianos.” Laina tugged at one of her thong-wrapped tails of hair. “When you’re done at High Hrothgar, I do recommend a visit to Winterhold. I’m betting Onmund’s already got Urag pulling out everything they have on dragons.”

            Erik ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not really comfortable with magic. I know you and Reldith and Jouane but the Forsworn and bandit mages and necromancers…”

            “Understandable.” Laina sighed. “I can send a courier. Kynareth knows I’ve found enough tomes and sent them to the College over the years. Urag will probably make copies of what we need to know. Assuming that the Greybeards don’t have the books already.”

            She rose to her feet. “You should rest. Jarl Balgruuf’s planning a big thank-you ceremony tomorrow and he’ll want you there.”

            “Can I pass?” Erik asked desperately.

            “Not if you want to avoid pissing off your liege lord.” Her smile was wryly bitter. “Welcome to the wonderful world of politics.”


	5. The Jarl's Machinations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism and classism.
> 
> …

 

The wonderful thing about being Harbinger was that Irkand could show up to a formal event in armour and no one batted an eyelash. He lounged against one of the carved columns in Dragonsreach’s Great Hall and watched servants scurry about in preparations for a grand celebration at short notice. Proventus Avenicci looked ready to explode from the stress. The staff, mostly older carls since all the young ones had gone to war, were cursing the Jarl under their breath with some justification. The cook wanted to know how she was going to pull a five-course banquet out of her arse in twelve hours. Hrongar was standing around giving orders that the staff ignored. Balgruuf’s children were being brats. Farengar had his nose buried in books, translating the Dragonstone to locate dragon burials.

            Aela arrived, dodging someone carrying a wreath of mountain flowers. “Erik’s settled in Jorrvaskr and Vilkas is running him through the preliminary tests,” she reported. “I’m glad Farkas and I can vouch for his competency and courage _before_ we knew he was Dragonborn.”

            “Agreed.” Irkand ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. “He needs as much normality as we can manage.”

            “You’re the ex-Blade,” Aela observed with a shrug. “What we need to do is keep the Legion and Stormcloaks from trying to drag him into the civil war. Alduin is the priority.”

            Irkand nodded. “Ideally, we’d arrange a truce between them. But after Helgen, could we put Ulfric and Tullius in the same room?”

            “We may have no choice.” Aela sighed explosively. “If Kodlak were still alive, he’d be able to haul them both by the ear into Jorrvaskr. You’re _respected_ and your honour is without question, but…”

            “I am Irkand Aurelius. The son of a traitor to the Empire and a Redguard born in Colovia. Neither side would tolerate me making the call.”

            “Yes.” Aela snorted in disgust. “The Nords who don’t care about you being a Redguard dislike you because you were an assassin.”

            “I still am,” Irkand pointed out. “If climbing through a window and cutting someone’s throat would spare Skyrim some grief, I’d consider it a fair tactic.”

            Aela smirked wryly. Of the Companions, the Huntress understood him best. He regretted her mating to Skjor sometimes. “Don’t let Erik catch you saying that. The boy thinks you’re the epitome of honour and nobility.”

            “I’ll need to disabuse him of that.” Irkand grinned. “A couple training sessions should do it.”

            “Speaking of which…”

            “He’s a classic barbar, if I may use the gladiatorial term,” Irkand said. “Have Scouts run him through calisthenics and stealth in light armour. Vilkas can handle the two-handed business. You, I and Njada can handle training him in archery, one-handed weapons and shield-work. If he’s interested in dual-wielding, I’ll bring Athis into it.”

            Aela nodded in satisfaction. “Any magic?”

            “Not on our end.” Irkand smiled wryly. “If he’s an interest, either Laina or the College can handle it. I’ve got some Illusion magic and I know Athis dabbles in Destruction, but we’re better to handle the physical side of things.”

            “Leave the rest to the professionals. I suppose it makes sense.” Aela shifted slightly. “What about the civil war?”

            Irkand pursed his lips. “Balgruuf and I will need to talk. We need a truce and he’s the man that’ll make it happen.”

…

Laina told Rorik and Jouane everything. It brought back memories, her sitting by the fire with her fathers, a cup of mulled mead in hand and the burdens of her life temporarily allayed. Now it was cider; the death of Mralki’s wife killed off their burgeoning brewing industry, just as Lemkil’s wife dying led to Jouane having to buy fabric in Whiterun. Everyone else was so busy farming these days.

            “So young Erik’s the Dragonborn, eh?” Rorik finally said. “How’s he taking it?”

            “About as well as to be expected,” Laina admitted. “If he took it in his stride, I’d be worried for his sanity. He’s overwhelmed but ecstatic to be joining the Companions.”

            She sipped from her warm cider. “The Harbinger was a Blade but he seems more inclined to a mentorship role than a kingmaker one. I’m helping as much as I can. Balgruuf’s gonna make him a Thane. That goes without saying. The celebration’s tonight.”

            Rorik downed his drink. “We’ll tell Mralki. Then we’ll come with you. Erik’s one of us and he won’t stand alone.”

            Laina followed suit. “You better prepare the guard for hostilities. By existing, the Dragonborn will earn enemies, and Alduin knew precisely where Erik was at Helgen. If it won’t be dragons, it’ll be someone with an axe to grind.”

            “By the gods…” Jouane’s mouth thinned. “I see you’ve learned politics.”

            “Had to as one of Balgruuf’s agents. That’s not when Winterhold is trying to drag me into shit because of the Synod or the College of Whispers.” Laina rubbed her forehead with a sigh. “I’m beginning to appreciate why you left High Rock.”

            “People can’t comprehend why someone with extraordinary talent might simply wish for a good plain life,” Jouane said softly. “If you have one form of power, surely you must want more.”

            “I’m happy with my life,” Laina agreed. “A bit more complication than I’d like, but I want to tend to my apples and live in peace.”

            Jouane smiled a little. “Belethor offered me one of your treatises on agricultural magic the last time I was in Whiterun. I reminded him I had the whole damn set.”

            She smiled in return. “Arch-Mage Onmund and I both agree that magic can only be normalised by practical everyday use. You can’t get more practical than growing crops.”

            “I think we did alright with you,” Rorik said warmly.

            Laina regarded the men who raised her, her true parents, with an affectionate smile. “The best parts of me came from you two. My mother abandoned me for her own ambitions and I don’t even recall my father’s kin. You’ve loved me unconditionally and I don’t tell you enough just how much I love you… Fathers.”

            They embraced each other in a three-way hug and for a moment, the end of days meant nothing.

…

Erik tugged at his collar. The tunic sewn up for him by one of Balgruuf’s servants was a deep cinnamon with golden embroidery, the goat’s wool finer than anything he’d ever worn before, but the collar felt too tight. Maybe it was nervousness. He was a farmboy-turned-whelp, not a noble. Why was the Jarl even holding this party anyway?

            “Loosen the laces a little,” advised Laina from her seat in the corner. She, Rorik and Jouane had ridden in from Rorikstead about an hour ago to support him. Most people were impressed with Erik being Dragonborn. There was a sense of sorrow around the Roriksteaders. “Show off that ivory shirt.”

            He obeyed. “Why is Balgruuf even doing this?” he asked plaintively. “Delphine killed the dragon but I’m being celebrated as the hero.”

            “Because he’s going to make you a Thane,” Rorik said gently. “The Dragonborn as a Thane of Whiterun might keep the circling vultures off the Hold for a few months longer. When I was made Thane in the northeast, it stabilised our borders.”

            “I’ve managed to fend off the title because most of the nobility are uncomfortable with a mage, even if she’s a farmer,” Laina added kindly. “I also didn’t want a bloody huscarl tramping around my orchards.”

            “…Huscarl?” Erik said weakly.

            “As a Thane, you’ll have responsibilities as well as rights,” Rorik explained. “I command the guards in the northeast. Because of that, I don’t have a huscarl, but you’ll receive a life-sworn warrior to watch your back.”

            “Balgruuf’s waiving the property-holding duty as well,” Laina noted. “He’s making a point.”

            Jouane’s mouth was tight. “I don’t like what Balgruuf’s doing.”

            “Neither do I,” Rorik agreed. “But as we did when Laina was forced to settle near Whiterun, we’ll make the best of it.”

            Erik blinked and stared at Laina. “The Jarl _forced_ you to settle where you did?”

            “More or less. We’ve reclaimed so much land that the best spots for an orchard would have spilled over into the Reach or Haafingar,” Laina explained. “Balgruuf didn’t want to make Rorikstead a tempting target for acquisition when both Igmund and Istlod were weak politically.”

            Erik took a deep breath to fight past the nervousness. “So why do you think he’s making me a Thane?”

            “As a Thane, you’re part of the military command – and resources – of Whiterun,” Rorik said gently. “Balgruuf’s using you as a shield – the Dragonborn of prophecy – against the aggression of the Empire and the Stormcloaks.”

            “Because he has fine fields, fat flocks and a prosperous people who’d make a fine target for acquisition,” Erik said slowly. “Whoever wins Whiterun will win the war. That much is obvious.”

            Rorik and Jouane exchanged chagrined looks but Laina was nodding slowly. “Yes,” she agreed. “And that’s why, despite me disagreeing with him on a fair few things, I support him.”

            Laina rose to her feet, smoothing down her clothing. Even now, the preparations for a feast going on downstairs, she wore drab browns with little embroidery. But Erik realised the garments were of fine cotton and goat’s wool, like his, and her plain bronze jewellery bore the sheen of enchantment. He was also struck by how little noise she made when she moved. “He’s a vain, gold-hungry git who’s tried to manipulate me into the nobility more than once, either through Thaneship or marriage. But as Jarls go, and I’ve met a few, he’s likely the best in Skyrim. Balgruuf thinks first of his people and his Hold. Sure, his prestige and comfort come second, but that’s because they show he’s wealthy and competent enough to run a prosperous Hold where the people have a touch of the feastday about them every day. He loves his Hold and his people. And too few of the Jarls around here think that way.”

            “You always speak so well of me.” The dry burred tenor broke the silence that followed her little speech.

            “It’s nothing I haven’t said to your face, Balgruuf, at the Holdmoot,” Laina countered dryly, turning to face the Jarl.

            Balgruuf was as golden and commanding as Erik expected a Jarl to be. Rangy like any Plainsman, his bare arms were seamed with scars and still showed the muscle of a man who used a sword. Sun-blond hair was braided back at the sides, strands of silver in it and the long goatee, but aside from some squint lines his rugged features were younger than his forty or so years. His garments were silk in blue and purple, dripping heavy gold chains, velvet embroidery and snow fox trimming. His circlet was bright gold with blood-red rubies and a grass-green emerald set into it. Rings decorated most of his fingers, silver and gold, several of them enchanted.

            “You’re also right, damn those Kreathling eyes of yours,” the Jarl continued with a sigh, stepping aside to allow a broad-shouldered young woman in fur-trimmed steel armour into the room. “I need Erik. Irkand and I are going to try talking the Legion and the Stormcloaks into a truce. That means I need a very, very big stick. One with a loud Voice.”

            Jouane was already nodding. “Having the Dragonborn deliver the combined summons of the Harbinger and the Jarl of Whiterun will be a powerful statement.”

            “Yep.” Balgruuf massaged his temples and Erik could now see the strain in his blue eyes. “Knowing this, and that my own niece Lydia will be your huscarl, will you agree to this, Erik? I can’t force you. Irkand’s made it very clear no one can force the Dragonborn to do anything. But we need a truce. You need to focus on the dragons… and Olava’s already warned me we’ll need the old dragon-trap on the Great Porch. I can’t do that if the Legion or the Stormcloaks are planning an attack.”

            How could Erik deny that request? “Of course, Jarl Balgruuf.”

            The Jarl sighed in relief. “Thank you. Trust me, I’m hoping the mere idea of you as Thane will get them to back off. Can’t they see the only people winning in a civil war are the Thalmor?”

            “Wasn’t Ulfric a Thalmor prisoner once?” Laina asked suddenly.

            The relief was short-lived on Balgruuf’s face. “You think he’s quisling?”

            “Not all quislings realised they were quislings,” Jouane said quietly. “If Ulfric _is_ , at least Galmar and Sigdrifa aren’t.”

            “I’d prefer a Thalmor-controlled Ulfric to an unleashed Galmar or Sigdrifa,” Balgruuf said grimly. He glanced at Laina. “Not many know about Ulfric’s imprisonment during the Great War.”

            “I’ve always just known that,” she said quietly. “I remember him a little from Bruma.”

            “I wish I knew more about your lost kin,” Balgruuf said slowly.

            “I’d rather not. What I remember…” Laina shuddered. “I’d rather be the daughter of Rorik and Jouane, Jarl.”

            “Heh, with the educated guesses I can make, I don’t blame you.” Balgruuf sighed and tugged at his beard. “Lydia, this is Erik the Dragon-Slayer. Erik, this is Lydia, my big brother Istgeir’s only daughter.”

            Lydia had the sculpted features and solid build of a true Nord woman, her black hair and fair complexion probably Paler or Eastmarcher. Only her eye colour matched Balgruuf’s. “I’m honoured, ma’am,” he said awkwardly.

            “I’m your huscarl, my Thane,” she greeted in a pleasant soprano.

            “I hope you two get on well,” Balgruuf continued.

            Laina rolled her eyes. “You’re as subtle as a brick at times, Balgruuf.”

            “Huh?” Erik asked.

            The Jarl smiled wryly. “My proposal still stands, Laina.”

            “And so does my refusal.” Laina tossed her head. “Let’s go. We shouldn’t keep the guests waiting.”

            Erik scrambled to follow the group. Being a Thane sounded a lot more complicated than he realised. And he still had to kill dragons.


	6. Power and Politics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, genocide, religious persecution, imprisonment and war crimes.

 

Balgruuf reminded himself to find a way to reward his staff for the miracles they wrought in such a short time. Dragonsreach was hung with garlands of mountain flowers and snowberries, the tables groaning with platters and tureens of food, kegs of mead, wine and cider within easy reach, and the fire burning with the resinous scent of pine. The great and good of his Hold were in attendance, from the Thanes to the sole hetwoman, and even the Companions graced the Great Hall. And if the meat heaped on the platters was mostly venison, the stews made from salted mammoth and preserved vegetables, the mead Honningbrew, and the snowberry wine and cider hailing from Snjobera Farm, what of it? It was still the greatest feast the Dragonborn had ever seen.

            Erik was under the watchful eye of Irkand, Laina, Rorik or Jouane the entire evening, nursing the single flagon of mead and looking around with a farmboy’s wide gaze. Grown past a youth but not quite a man; his father Mralki sheltered him a little too much. Smarter than he looked with a good grasp of the necessities that drove Balgruuf. But still very naïve.

            Balgruuf didn’t waste time lamenting the fact that Erik was likely to wise up quickly thanks to Irkand and Laina in particular. The former protected his Companions; the latter was a fellow Roriksteader who stood by her friend. He instead chose to hope that Erik and Lydia hit it off. The more ties he had binding the Dragonborn, the better.

            _I would almost give my soul to know what’s going on in Solitude and Windhelm,_ Balgruuf thought grimly as Hrongar led a wassail for those who died at the claws of the dragons. _They’re quiet. Far too quiet._

            He shook his head. Tonight was to feast and show Erik the power and prosperity of Whiterun Hold. Tomorrow’s problems for tomorrow.

…

Sigdrifa slouched back in her seat as Ralof delivered the report of Helgen to a dismayed Holdmoot. The Plainsman spared no detail in the horror of the World-Eater’s return. Watching Torsten Cruel-Sea throw up was almost amusing. But it put the seal on what she already knew: Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, was dead.

            She felt a pang of regret. You didn’t share your life with someone for over two decades without becoming close. But sacrifices needed to be made and now, in this time of turmoil and trouble, they needed the one resolute hand on the wheel. Bjarni and Egil didn’t have the experience of war that she did. She had to be Jarl of Windhelm and commander of the Stormcloak forces until the Empire was driven from Skyrim.

            “Ulfric never came back,” Sigdrifa said simply when Ralof’s report was completed. “Wuunferth confirmed his death by scrying.”

            Ralof looked ready to weep. “How did he die?” he demanded.

            “A gladius,” she replied truthfully. At blank expressions from the Holdmoot, she added, “A Legion-issue sword.”

            That set them muttering angrily and gasping in horror, as she expected. With every plan, pay attention to all details, no matter how small.

            “I mourn him too,” Sigdrifa continued in all sincerity. “But we know Ulfric wouldn’t have us falter in the fight for Skyrim.”

            “Exactly,” Jorleif agreed. “Ulfric prepared documents against this day, witnessed and signed by myself, Torbjorn Shatter-Shield, Torsten Cruel-Sea and the Temple of Talos. He confirms Sigdrifa Stormsword as supreme commander of the Stormcloak forces until Skyrim is independent with-“ The Steward paused, looking around the Great Hall, “Ralof Storm-Hammer as Jarl of Windhelm in the event of Bjarni winning Falkreath and Egil winning Dawnstar.”

            “Ralof?” Anneke Crag-Jumper asked in surprise.

            “He was adopted as Ulfric’s blood-brother last year,” Jorleif explained. “Seeing as Ralof has been an uncle to the boys.”

            _Well played, Ulfric,_ Sigdrifa conceded silently.

            “Ulfric does me much honour,” Ralof finally said. “I’m not sure I’ll be a good Jarl, but it’s my hope that you and the Thanes will help me, Jorleif.”

            “You’re smart and a good man,” Jorleif assured him.

            “That’s a good thing,” Sigdrifa observed. “Rulership won’t distract me from war.”

            “A war we face on two fronts,” Ralof said. “I saw the World-Eater. Dragons already roost on many mountains in the Old Holds. How will we deal with the dragons, Stormsword?”

            “Leave it to the Dragonborn unless the beasts attack towns or camps,” Sigdrifa sighed. “I want every effort made to identify the Dragonborn and their connections, associates and anything else we can discover as soon as possible. If we know what moves them, we have a chance of recruiting them.”

            She rose to her feet. “I received word from the same messenger who told me of Ulfric’s death that Bjarni has taken Falkreath for the Stormcloaks. There’s no word from Egil yet but I have every reason to believe he will succeed. We must mourn for Ulfric and prepare for the dragons… but we must also keep the pace of the war going, or we will have lost him for nothing.”

            Sigdrifa inclined her head. “Talos preserve us all. If I’m needed, I’ll be in the Temple praying for my husband’s soul.”

…

“Enough!”

            Legate Primus Rikke – now Acting General Rikke – hammered the stout oaken table, startling Jarl Elisif the Fair and shutting the Haafingar Thanes up. Her Legates, thank Talos, were more sensible about Tullius’ death at Helgen and the return of dragons. “It’s not the end of the world, despite Alduin’s best efforts. I’ve identified the Dragonborn – one Erik of Rorikstead. Balgruuf’s probably going to hustle him into a Thaneship and I know for a fact the Companions have snapped him up.”

            “Irkand would know what one was,” Legate Fasendil said into the ensuing silence. “I’m probably going to annoy _somebody_ by suggesting this, but we really should remove the interdict from Irkand. He was elsewhere when Arius launched his rebellion and we’re going to need the good will of the Companions.”

            Rikke smiled wryly at the Altmer Legionnaire. “Given my druthers, I’d do the same conditional on an oath that the Aurelii forswear any claim to the Ruby Throne. Irkand doesn’t have an ambitious bone in his body. Now _Rustem_ on the other hand…”

            “Has diplomatic immunity and isn’t stupid enough to piss off Hammerfell by pushing a claim,” Legate Skulnar of Falkreath rumbled. “Pissing _us_ off, sure. But not pissing off his liege lords.”

            “Could someone explain this Dragonborn business?” Emmanuel Admand from the Reach asked. “I know it was used to refer to the Septim dynasty, but…”

            “I’m no skald, but as I understand it, Erik’s the only thing that can keep a dragon dead,” Rikke explained. “If we can recruit him for the war against the Stormcloaks, that’d be great. But Alduin must be his priority.”

            Hrollod of Eastmarch nodded. “She’s right.”

            Hadvar, her second, cleared his throat. “Erik’s not much impressed with either side, ma’am. It’s a Roriksteader attitude. Most of them are refugees or veterans of the Great War. Rorik fought at Red Ring. Jouane lost much of his family in the attack on Wayrest. Laina was abandoned during the war. Reldith and Ennis were dispossessed.”

            “It’s somewhat of a reflection of Balgruuf’s neutrality too,” Quentin Cipius added. “Balgruuf’s father and brother were killed by Thalmor and he came to the throne young, after being trained as a Steward.”

            Elisif looked between everyone. The daughter of the Duke of Evermore, she’d never been anywhere near an area devastated by the Great War, also being born a few years afterwards. She meant well despite being a little vain and shallow. Rikke figured with the right support, she could even be a decent Jarl.

            “The Legion brings stability and prosperity. Look at the Old Holds under Ulfric’s rulership. Poverty, brutality…”

            “We better not pretend that the Legion can’t be harsh,” Rikke said gently. “Some of the rebels have justified grievances.”

            “Yes, but bandits don’t proliferate in Haafingar the way they do in Eastmarch… And they aren’t as quickly swept up by the Legion as they are by the Stormcloaks,” Elisif continued. “Sigdrifa is a worshipper of the false god Talos and the brains of the Stormcloaks, correct?”

            “Ye-es,” Rikke said slowly.

            “Bandits purged all the resistance to Sigdrifa’s regime as ‘rebels’ did in Hammerfell before Tiber Septim moved in,” Elisif said softly. “Then the Legion wiped them out. That three-pronged attack? That came from Tiber’s campaign in Evermore against the western Reachfolk.”

            Jaws actually dropped as several people reassessed the Breton-born redhead. Rikke found herself smiling slightly. “You found the thread that I could feel but not see,” the General said. “Thank you, Jarl Elisif.”

            The Jarl blushed prettily but her blue eyes hardened. “I wanted to know why Torygg died. So I studied the Stormcloaks. Istlod had files on the leaders. With all respect, compared to someone from High Rock, Sigdrifa and a good many of the other Jarls are political amateurs. Balgruuf is a good solid politician but the rest…? I’m learning the rhythms of Nord politics. Help me understand the war and culture, Rikke, and we can save Skyrim from the Stormsword.”

            Rikke nodded slowly. “If I could choose a High King of Skyrim, it would be Balgruuf,” she admitted. “But he hasn’t chosen a side.”

            “And with the dragons’ return, he’s not likely to,” Cipius noted. “I respect the man’s devotion to his people but his neutrality will leave him vulnerable.”

            Elisif bit her bottom lip. “I know dragons can’t die, not easily, but someone cut them up and put them into holes. What if the Legion were to do the same and send the heads to Balgruuf… and the Dragonborn? Show them how efficiently the Empire responds to danger?”

            “We better start making mobile arbalests,” Hadvar rasped. “Stocking Direnni Fire, adding battlemages to our patrols…”

            Rikke nodded again. “Do it. We can send it with the messenger detailing Balgruuf’s vulnerability to attack. I don’t want to destroy the second-oldest city in Skyrim. You’ve never seen Whiterun, Elisif, but it’s beautiful. Every Nord knows on seeing it that this is _home_ in a way that Windhelm and Solitude can’t manage. Windhelm was built by Atmoran conquerors and elven tears. Solitude is a city of the Empire. Markarth is dwarven and Riften’s really a jumped-up trade town. But Whiterun… It grew up around Jorrvaskr, heart of Nord honour. If you see it, you’ll understand.”

            “Then maybe I should.” Elisif bit her lip again. “I’m standing for High Queen because the alternative is worse. But if we can win Balgruuf over, I would gladly stand aside. So I propose that I go to Whiterun and meet both Balgruuf and the Dragonborn.”

            “But… the babe in your belly!” Thane Bryling protested.

            “Is in no less danger on the road than it would be in the Blue Palace,” she said tartly. “We’ve already killed two assassins.”

            “It could work if we do it in the next couple weeks, while the Stormcloaks are still reeling,” Rikke finally said. “In fact, if you deliver the message yourself…”

            “It will have more of an impact.” Elisif stood, cradling her gently rounded belly. “Balgruuf has children.”

            “No, he has Daedra-spawn,” Rikke said wryly. “But if we can put a face to the Empire, one that has suffered at Stormcloak hands and is vulnerable…”

            “We might win Balgruuf over. And the regard of the Dragonborn.” Elisif’s gaze was bleak. “I’m from Evermore, General. I understand politics. I have a few things up my sleeve that might sweeten the deal.”

            “We’ll do our best to make sure it doesn’t come to that, at least not until the year-day of Torygg’s death is observed,” Rikke said gently.

            “Thank you.” Elisif’s eyes shone with tears. “But I understand necessity.”

            “We all do,” Rikke agreed. “I just wish the Stormcloaks felt the same way.”


	7. Training

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for violence and mentions of child soldiers.  
> …

 

Life as a whelp in the Companions involved… not what Erik expected. An Argonian called Scouts-Many-Marshes had them begin the day by running around the perimeter road of Whiterun just after dawn, but not before they stretched out every muscle in their bodies. An hour of lifting smoothed rocks, twisting and turning, learning how to fall and how to jump followed. Once they’d stretched and walked out the aches one more time, the whelps were permitted a light breakfast of flatbread, snowberry jam and sweet cider. Two hours of hand to hand combat was next. Erik was mostly punching the Whiterun wall so that callouses formed on his knuckles. But he had to punch in certain ways. And that wasn’t counting the kicks Irkand expected them to throw in at particular intervals.

            Lunch was heartier, involving more flatbread and cider, but accompanied with cold meat. The Harbinger stood up at a lectern (that was what Ria from Cyrodiil called it) and read from _Songs of the Return_ or books about combat. He welcomed questions and expected everyone to keep track of what he was reading out.

            The afternoon involved training with weapons. Erik’s first day there, he saw the Harbinger use a variety of things he didn’t even realise were weapons, from a pair of light iron weights on a thin chain to star-shaped sharp _things_ that he flung from his knuckles. Barely sweating, his scarred olive-bronze torso rippling with muscle, Irkand turned around to the whelps and said, “I don’t expect you to be as adept as me in all weapons. I began my training just after learning to walk. But before your Proving, you will be skilled at a melee weapon, a ranged weapon, a thrown weapon and hand-to-hand. Even now, most of you show natural competency in a particular style. But talent only gets you to good. Training will get you to master.”

            “But you fight with pair-wielded daggers,” Athis the Dunmer countered. Erik got the feeling he’d been a whelp for ten or so years and was coming up to his Proving. Maybe.

            “To be precise, Athis, I fight with paired wazikashi, the Akaviri long knife – or shortsword, depending on how you define it,” the Harbinger said with a wry smile. “The ninjato is closer to a true shortsword and the tanto is truly a short dagger. But yes, I have preferred weapons, as do you.”

            He nodded to the whelps. “Even now, Njada is my superior at shield-work. Torvar, if he gets his shit together, will make an excellent mace-man. Ria has yet to decide if she wants to be a skirmisher or a barbar: if she chooses the former, she will be trained in the katana; the latter will likely be the dai-katana. You yourself are an excellent knife-man. Erik is barbar but given he’ll be going up against dragons, I want him to have the basics of every readily available weapon. Each of you have strengths and weaknesses. It’s my job to see that the former are fostered and the latter compensated for.”

            He caught the towel tossed to him by Aela. “There’s no shame or dishonour in deciding this life isn’t for you. The Fighters’ Guild isn’t as stringent and all of you have the competency to be better than average sellswords. But to be a Companion of Jorrvaskr is to be an heir of Ysgramor, and the legacy of the Harbinger is war. So by the time you are ready for your Proving, you will be weapons, and your only reasons for failure moral weakness or a force outside our control.”

            Irkand smiled slightly. “Have fun, whelps. I’ll see you at dinner.”

            Erik decided then and there Irkand was an evil sadist who enjoyed the agony of innocent Nords.

            A week into his training, the Harbinger himself stepped into the battle-circle with twin polished sticks in hand. “Prepare yourselves,” he said simply. “Each week, I will test your training personally. Pick your weapons and draw lots.”

            Ria drew the first lot and selected the polished wooden katana. She stepped into the ring and began some elaborate sequence of movements that had Irkand stepping back and to the side. When it ended in a diagonal slash, he used his left stick to deflect it and the right to hit her forearm so that she dropped the weapon.

            “Sword-dancing is lovely, Ria, but it will get you killed on the battlefield,” he chided. “This isn’t the Arena. Stick to the Two-Score Style if you insist on fighting with Akaviri weaponry.”

            She nodded, eyes stormy, and picked up the katana.

            Athis was next and chased Irkand around the battle-circle with his paired knives. They matched blow to blow, a great deal of tumbling and rolling involved, and the bout only ended when Irkand threw sand into the Dunmer’s face, following it with a pulled elbow strike that stopped short of the throat.

            “Knife-fighting is the dirtiest style in existence,” he told the mer. “Be prepared to use any means necessary to win the fight, barring poison or ambush – unless they’re appropriate targets.”

            “I thought Companions faced their enemies openly,” Njada challenged as she readied her shield.

            “I match the honour of my tactics to the honour of my opponents,” Irkand said dryly. “Besides, Aela is the mistress of stealth and ambush, and no one doubts _her_ honour.”

            “If an enemy is the kind to challenge me openly, I’ll do the same,” Aela confirmed. “But the prey I’m generally sent after are the scum who deal in ambushes. Or they’re large animals where it’s useless to engage them openly.”

            Njada banged her shield as she entered the battle-circle. “Let’s dance, Harbinger. I learned a new shield-bash this week.”

            “You ask me so kindly, how could I refuse?” Irkand retorted as he settled into a combat stance.

            It was the Eastmarcher who gave Irkand the most trouble so far in the battle-circle. He’d ducked to get under her shield for a knee strike when she brought it down to hit him in the middle of the back. Horrified as the Harbinger went limp, Njada lifted her shield to make sure he was alright – and Irkand grabbed her ankle and pulled her off balance, sending her crashing to the ground.

            “Get out of reach,” he groaned as Skjor helped him up. “Or better yet, you should have stomped on something to keep me down.”

            Njada scrambled to her feet, retrieving her weapons. “But I could have broken something.”

            “And I could have spent the next few weeks being fawned on by a lady of my acquaintance while Skjor ran you children through your paces,” Irkand said dryly. “You hesitate too much, Njada.”

            “Pretend it’s Athis,” Torvar suggested cheekily.

            “Erik,” the Harbinger told the Dragonborn. “You’re next.”

            He gulped and entered the battle-circle with the wooden replica of the battleaxe that Vilkas decided was the best weapon to start with. It was in the Reach style, so the head was flat with a curved edge and vicious hook on the other side. “The Lochaber?” Irkand said with some surprise. “Not the weapon I’d’ve picked.”

            “That’s because you’re shit with polearms,” Vilkas said bluntly from his place against the wall. “It’s anti-cavalry, so it’s used to cutting things coming at you with great speed.”

            “You’re Arms Master,” Irkand conceded. “Shall we, Erik?”

            Much to Erik’s surprise, the Lochaber was almost light in his hands as he swung it. Irkand was forced to backpedal to avoid the weapon’s reach before dodging and coming in low for a crippling blow. Erik brought the butt down to hit him, but the Harbinger rolled to the side, coming to his feet with sand in his fist. The Roriksteader closed his eyes and turned his head to avoid the inevitable sand, only for Irkand to land a solid punch on his thigh that left the whole leg feeling numb. Erik fell to one knee, dropping the Lochaber, and groped blindly for the stick Irkand had dropped. His fingers wrapped around it as the Harbinger stood up with a wide stance, his arm lifted for a blow… And Erik said, “Fuck it” and went for the groin hit.

             Irkand, his expression blankly dumbfounded, keeled over to the side with a squeak of pain.

            The silence was deafening until Ria’s gasp broke it. “That was a dirty blow!” the Colovian exclaimed.

            “And he threw sand in Athis’ face and pulled Njada off her feet,” Erik pointed out. “First thing I ever learned from Rorik and Da was that war ain’t fair. If kicking Alduin in the nuts saves the world, I’ll do it.”

            The Harbinger then swept his feet from under him in his moment of hesitation.

            “Honour… is facing your enemies… openly,” Irkand rasped as he struggled to his feet. “It’s achieving… what you vowed to do. It’s fighting… enemies… worth your time and skill. But the honour of war… is different to… the honour of duels. That’s why I teach… war… and Vilkas teaches… duels.”

            Erik was helped to his feet by Torvar. “First time I seen him eat dust,” the Rifter muttered in his ear. “I owe you a drink.”

            Skjor helped Irkand over to a bench. “Looks like it’s your lucky day, Torvar,” the old Companion said with a wolfish grin. “You get to spar with me.”

            “Oh, shit,” Torvar breathed. “Talos help me.”

            Of course, Talos didn’t.


	8. Balgruuf's Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism.
> 
> …

 

“Listen up, whelps.”

            Irkand clasped his hands behind his back as the younglings lined up in the courtyard. Well, Athis was his age but in mer years still just past adolescence with all its stupidities. “You’ve managed to not completely disgrace yourselves over the past week, so we’re sending you out for jobs. Most of you will be paired with another whelp under the eye of a Circle member. Any questions?”

            Ria, of course, raised her hand. “What kind of jobs are we doing?”

            “The standard.” Irkand pursed his lips. “Athis, Njada, you’re heading out to a bandit situation in Falkreath with Skjor. They’ve set up shop in an abandoned iron mine and the new Jarl wants it operational.”

            “I didn’t think Siddgeir was that competent,” Ria muttered under her breath. Irkand knew she came from a high-ranking Imperial family. Perhaps even the highest – she had the Marei look to her.

            “He wasn’t. Bjarni Ulfricsson defeated him in a duel to the death after working his way up to Thane.” Irkand pinned the Colovian girl with a stare. “While you’re with the Companions, you stay out of politics. In return, we keep the Stormcloaks off your back. Understood?”

            “Understood,” she said with a tight mouth. “What’s my job, sir?”

            “You and Torvar are off to Eastmarch under Aela. Cronvangr Cave’s full of spiders that need clearing out.” Irkand smiled a little evilly as Torvar flinched. “Both of you are shit with bows and need the practice.”

            Ria nodded curtly as Njada and Athis glared at each other. “You’re making us work with people we don’t like.”

            “Welcome to the real world,” Irkand said with a slight smile. “Vilkas and I can barely stand each other, if you haven’t noticed, but we still work for the good of the Companions.”

            Erik shifted on his feet. “So it’s me and Scouts, Harbinger?”

            “No.” Irkand smiled at the Argonian. “Scouts-Many-Marshes is going on his Proving with Farkas. He’s been ready for a month or so, but I wanted to make sure he could teach as well as follow.”

            The Argonian smiled. “You honour me, Harbinger.”

            Irkand grinned. “You might feel otherwise, my fine scaled friend. Fort Greymoor is your objective. With the Western Watchtower destroyed, Balgruuf wants it taken back so he can man it with his own soldiers.”

            “It was that or Cronvangr Cave for me,” Farkas admitted. “We got Fort Greymoor because I don’t like spiders. Sorry.”

            “Arsehole.” Whether Scouts was referring to Irkand or Farkas was ambivalent.

            “Vilkas and you will be going to High Hrothgar,” Irkand informed the Dragonborn. “In addition to being Arms Master, he’s also our historian.”

            “It will be my task to compare what we know of dragons to what the Greybeards do,” Vilkas said calmly.

            “And it’s a hell of a lot more diplomatic to send my Second instead of going myself,” Irkand agreed. “To the Greybeards, I am a Blade. To them, the Thu’um is a sacred thing to be used sparingly. To us… It’s another weapon to hand. Does that make sense?”

            Erik nodded slowly. “Yes, sir.”

            Irkand nodded to Avulstein Grey-Mane, who worked the Skyforge most days as his father retired due to poor health. All of the whelps had come with their own weapons but as a Companion, they would wield those given to them. “None of these are Skyforge Steel. You get that after your Proving. But it’s mostly forged by a wonder-smith and all of it’s better steel than you’ll see in most places.”

            Njada received a good solid steel sword and a curious spiked shield Irkand had picked up in a brawl with scavengers in a Dwemer ruin. “That’s called a targe,” he explained to the shield-fighter. “Nasty thing. Packs quite a wallop when you bash someone with it.”

            “It’s a good weight,” she approved. “Not Avulstein’s work. I don’t know the mark.”

            “It’s Colovian,” Irkand admitted. “But why have Avulstein forge a shield when there’s something perfectly decent right here?”

            “I wasn’t complaining,” she said quickly.

            “Good. Sometimes when you’re fighting, you might find a better weapon than the one you’re using.” Irkand nodded to the targe. “Unless your personal weapon’s a family heirloom or Skyforge Steel, don’t get attached to it.”

            Athis got twin daggers. “Not bad,” he observed. “I didn’t know Avulstein knew Morrowind style.”

            “A good smith learns many tricks from many peoples,” Avulstein said.

            Ria and Torvar got recurve bows with steel arrows. “You haven’t decided on a weapon yet,” Irkand told the Colovian, “And Torvar’s mace will take a little longer than everyone else.”

            “Nordic style,” Avulstein explained.

            Erik’s Lochaber axe – gruesome weapon – was last. Scouts-Many-Marshes still had his harpoon from his first job. After this, he’d be given a Skyforge Steel version. “How come it feels so light?” the Dragonborn asked in amazement.

            “I have you do your basic training with weighted equipment,” Irkand admitted cheerfully. He could be cheerful now his balls had healed. “It’s how I trained and I turned out alright.”

            “Depends on who’s asking,” Vilkas said dryly. He stood up and dusted off his breeches. “Alright, whelps. We’re going to run you through some drills with your new weapons. We all leave tomorrow.”

            Irkand stepped back into the shadows where Delphine waited. “No meddling at Ustengrav,” he warned quietly. “Erik’s rather smarter than he looks and already dislikes… interference. We also don’t need to piss off the Greybeards with blasphemy.”

            The Breton woman’s lips pursed. “How do I make contact?”

            “I’d actually prefer you go looking for Acilius and Esbern,” Irkand said mildly. “Fultheim’s up at Nightgate but… he’s a drunken wreck, to put it kindly. But if we can find the katana master and our loremaster…”

            She sighed and nodded. “Fine. But I don’t see why we should care about the Greybeards.”

            Irkand sighed inwardly. Delphine was monomaniacal, possibly even a fanatic of the worst sort. “They existed before and after us. They are holy men, however we may disagree with their policy on the Thu’um. Erik will need their guidance as much as ours.”

            “You give them too much respect, but I won’t argue with you.” Delphine nodded and removed herself from the courtyard.

            The Redguard pinched the bridge of his nose. He was juggling steel knives during a thunderstorm with every idiot around him insulting the gods.

…

Erik was just washing the sweat from his drill – Irkand was an arsehole but Vilkas was merciless in his drive for perfection – when Lydia arrived with formal wear folded over one arm. “Balgruuf’s summoned the Thanes and franklins to Dragonsreach,” she said tersely. “Is the Harbinger around?”

            “Nope. He’s somewhere else doing Harbinger stuff,” Erik answered. “Or so Farkas told me when I asked.”

            Lydia used some bad words that made Erik blush. “Well, it’s big. Not dragons but… big. Get dressed.”

            He obeyed, pulling on the brown-golden tunic from his feast. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

            “Nope. Too many ears.”

            Erik finished dressing and stopped by Aela. “I gotta go up to Dragonsreach. Something’s going on.”

            The Huntress nodded. “Make sure you’re back by midnight. Vilkas is an early starter.”

            He groaned. “Hope the Jarl doesn’t keep me that long.”

            “Tell him you’re going to High Hrothgar. Which you are.” Aela nodded to Lydia absently before returning to drilling Ria and Torvar with their bows.

            Laina was at Dragonsreach’s door with Olfrid Battle-Born, Vignar Grey-Mane and Nazeem. “Rorik and Jouane rode in about an hour ago with some people from Haafingar,” the farmer said tersely. “And we received updates on the casualties from Helgen.”

            Erik winced. Rorik wasn’t one for riding these days. “It was bad, Laina.”

            “I can imagine.” Her mouth was pursed. “General Tullius and Ulfric Stormcloak are confirmed dead.”

            “Shit.” That was Nazeem. For once, the Redguard wasn’t sneering at everyone. “What does that mean?”

            “They’ll call this fight ‘the Shield-Maiden War’ in the histories,” Vignar said grimly. “Rikke and Sigdrifa trained together.”

            The doors opened and Proventus ushered them inside.

            Erik tugged on his tunic as they approached the high table. Balgruuf was already there with an auburn-bearded man on one side and… quite possibly the loveliest redhead that had ever graced the halls of Dragonsreach on the other. Her features were fine-boned, almost Bretonesque, and there was a great sorrow in her bluish eyes.

            “Oh hell,” Laina sighed behind him. “I don’t need high court politics today.”

            “You know her?” Nazeem asked.

            “ _Of_ her. Pretty, red-haired and pregnant? That’s Elisif the Fair.”

            “The Empire’s would-be puppet,” Vignar said snidely.

            “Shut up, Vignar.” Laina’s asperity startled Erik from his staring at the Jarl of Solitude to look at her instead. “Whatever she is, no woman needs to see her husband butchered before her.”

            The farmer pushed past Erik and the Thanes to stand before Balgruuf. Rorik and Jouane were there, seated at the ends of the high table. Erik’s eyes flickered between the women. “Jarl, why am I here? The harvest needs to be brought in and the court has nothing to do with me.”

            “I thought Elisif might want a woman’s company,” Balgruuf rumbled. “You’re the highest-ranking unmarried woman in this Hold.”

            Elisif’s hands tightened on her fur mantle. “The crop’s more important,” she told Balgruuf.

            “I’m here now,” Laina said dryly. “It might even be pleasant to talk about something other than sweaty balls.”

            “That was the once, Laina,” the Jarl rumbled warningly.

            “Once was quite enough.” Laina walked around the table and plonked herself next to Elisif without a by-your-leave.

            “We might as well dispense with formality,” Balgruuf sighed. “Elisif, you’ve met Thane Rorik and his husband Jouane, and I assume you know Vignar and Olfrid.”

            “I do,” Elisif confirmed in a light high voice.

            “Unfortunately,” Vignar groused.

            Balgruuf favoured him with a glare before continuing. “The Redguard is Nazeem, the owner of Chilfurrow Farm and Wintersand Manor. The _forthright_ lady is Laina of Snjobera Farm. And the young man is Erik the Slayer… the Dragonborn and Thane of Whiterun.”

            Erik gulped and walked closer to the table. Elisif’s eyes were a colour deeper than blue but more vivid than purple. “Ma’am,” he said, sketching an awkward bow.

            “It’s an honour to meet you all,” Elisif announced in clear, carrying tones. “If there’s anything Haafingar can do to assist you in your duties, Dragonborn, let me or my Steward Falk Firebeard know.” She nodded to the bearded man on the other side of Balgruuf.

            He nodded mutely. She was certainly fair.

            The image of Ulfric Stormcloak, battered and scarred with war, flashed through his mind. He remembered Laina’s words: _“Torygg was a boy-king holding a butter knife who was murdered in front of his pregnant wife. I’m no fan of the Legion but… Kyne. It wasn’t a duel, it was a massacre.”_

Everyone sat down and Erik was beside Laina. Her turquoise eyes slanted in his direction, worry in them, before she turned back to Elisif.

            “Thank you,” Elisif said softly. “I heard your words to Vignar.”

            “I’m a survivor of the Bruma Purge,” Laina said simply. “I know how that kind of violence scars you.”

            Elisif closed her eyes and nodded. “We need this war to end. That’s why I’m here. If Balgruuf is willing to support the Legion in the civil war, I will gladly cede my right to the High Kingship to him. He’s a more experienced ruler and is Skyrim-born. That might win over some of the uncommitted people.”

            Balgruuf choked on his wine. Erik had never seen the Jarl flabbergasted. Most of the high table, excepting Falk Firebeard, were the same. Even Laina had arched her eyebrows in surprise.

            “What about Bjarni in Falkreath?” Erik asked. “Ulfric now controls most of Skyrim. Technically. I think.”

            Falk sighed explosively. “Bjarni’s… complicated. He’s the son of traitors who’ve planned their treason for many years, but he himself has technically not engaged in it.”

            “And a year of Siddgeir in Falkreath was quite enough,” Laina said grimly. “But… Jarl Elisif, are you aware of how everyone’s related around here? Balgruuf’s in-laws with Idgrod Ravencrone of Hjaalmarch and his cousin is reportedly the new Jarl of Windhelm, the Grey-Manes are Ulfric’s maternal kin, and Sigdrifa’s related to the Kreathling Jarls.”

            “And Maven Black-Briar’s got her fingers in more pies than she should, her Stormcloak business partner Asgeir Snow-Shod’s planning to marry Vittoria Vici – the Emperor’s first cousin – and the Battle-Borns are the cousins of Thane Bryling in Solitude,” the Jarl finished. “I know. That’s why Balgruuf needs to be High King.”

            “Does the Legion know of this?” Balgruuf finally asked.

            “Rikke approves,” Elisif said calmly. “My pride doesn’t matter. Skyrim’s survival does.”

            The Jarl of Whiterun didn’t even hesitate. “The alternative is Sigdrifa Stormsword ruling Skyrim. Get me the appropriate paperwork with the appropriate seals, Elisif, and you’ll have my support.”


	9. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, child abandonment and fantastic racism.

 

“I didn’t think Elisif was that smart… or dedicated to her country.”

            Rustem Aurelius poured himself and old Beroc some mulled snowberry wine to ward them against the chilly wind off the Sea of Ghosts. They’d spent too many years in Skyrim with infrequent visits home. But Hammerfell’s security and family business required their presence in this frozen shithole of a country.

            “Balgruuf’s an intelligent man,” Beroc agreed, lean sepia fingers curling around the blood-red glass goblet. “And as such, I think he’s prone to underestimating the fanaticism of religious zealots like your ex-wife.”

            The former Blade grimaced in agreement. “If we know, she surely does. Rikke’s good but…”

            “She’s never been tested in broad field command the way Sigdrifa has been,” his father-in-law finished. “The Stormsword as ruler of Skyrim is concerning. But so too is a united Empire under the rule of Titus Mede, who’s refused to do Tamriel the favour of dying already.”

            “His granddaughter’s in Whiterun,” Rustem observed.

            “A Companion, yes?”

            “Whelp.” Rustem smirked a little. “Irkand was quite emphatic on the correct ranks when we last spoke.”

            “Unmarried and unchaperoned.” Beroc’s clay-brown eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Of an age with Cirroc.”

            _Even now, you old scorpion, you throw lures in my path to test my loyalty to Hammerfell…_ “Never happen. My son is an Alik’r of Hammerfell,” Rustem said quietly. “A Sword-Saint, if Sura-HoonDing finds him worthy.”

            “Sura-HoonDing has,” Beroc answered simply. “Cirroc conjured his first spirit sword two weeks ago.”

            Sword-Saint. The Redguards’ equivalent of the Greybeards, manifesting spirituality through an ethereal sword instead of a thunderous Shout. “You now tell me this?” Rustem asked, carefully keeping his voice neutral. He respected Beroc and shared many mutual goals, but the man wasn’t a friend.

            Beroc didn’t even bother to pretend offence at the question. “An Alik’r uses many weapons to hand, Rustem, including information. You focus on the obvious before you. You focus on the past. Your eyes have been turned in Sigdrifa’s direction without regard for those who rely on you.”

            “She’s a huge threat to Hammerfell,” Rustem countered. “With what we know about her…”

            “Yes, yes,” Beroc said in exasperation. “She’s a threat. But not the only threat to Hammerfell.”

            The old Forebear leaned forward. “Your daughter grew up with and is apparently something of a mentor to the young Dragonborn, a Nord lad named Erik the Slayer. Irkand’s taken him personally under his wing. I suspect when Cirroc arrives in Skyrim with Kematu’s band, he’ll flock to the Companions in hope of killing dragons. That is, of course, if he survives passing through the Hold controlled by Sigdrifa’s son Bjarni.”

            “I know all of this. What’s the fucking point of it?”

            Beroc muttered something biologically impossible in Yokudan. “Our family is tied up in all of this, Rustem. But you’re focused on Sigdrifa to the exclusion of all else. The dragons won’t stop at Skyrim. I’ve read the Prophecy of the Dragonborn. I wager even Sura-HoonDing would be hard pressed to deal with the World-Eater.”

            “Just speak plainly,” Rustem said disgustedly.

            Beroc’s nostrils flared in frustration. “I thought you’d learned something about politics over these past few years, but I was wrong. The Dragonborn must be assisted and the threats to Hammerfell – which are the same as those our family faces – removed.”

            “Irkand’s in Whiterun-“

            “And has his hands full with managing both Companions and the remnant Blades,” Beroc interrupted. “For once, Rustem, you need to make some decisions. I’m not the Ambassador after all. You are.”

            “So tell me what to do!”

            Beroc closed his eyes. “No. For good or for ill, you must make these decisions yourself.”

…

“Mistress Laina?”

            Just when she thought she was able to sneak back to Snjobera Farm, Elisif managed to corner her. Laina pasted on a pleasant smile and turned to the Jarl of Solitude. Erik just left because he was journeying in the morning and Vilkas was no sweeter at dawn than he was at sunset. “Yes, Jarl?” she asked.

            The young woman was a little shorter than Laina, who was medium-sized for a Nord, and rosy-fair in the Reacher way. Laina would bet snowberry wine to horker piss that Elisif damn well knew Erik was smitten with her and was already making plans in that pretty little head of hers.

            “I was hoping to talk to you a little more,” Elisif replied with a sad smile. “My court wizard Sybille Stentor says you’re one of the best mages in Skyrim, if not Tamriel.”

            “Have you _seen_ the magical talent in Skyrim?” Laina asked wryly. “I’m a savant when it comes to agricultural magic, it’s true, and I can hold my own in battle if necessary. But I’m not one of the great mages and I don’t want to be.”

            Elisif raised a winglike eyebrow. “I’ve never seen a woman so deliberately avoid fame when she is so competent. What _are_ you hiding from, Laina of Snjobera Farm?”

            “Nothing,” Laina said bluntly. “There are those of us who don’t care about fame and fortune. My farm is enough and more than enough.”

            The Jarl’s face gentled. “It must be hard, Aurelia Callaina, to have been abandoned by your parents.”

            _“What do you want?”_ Laina snarled. To Oblivion with politeness.

            “What you do. Peace and prosperity for our people. An end to war.” Elisif stood her ground as Laina glared, magic flaring around her fingers in turquoise spurts. “I’m not blind to the Thalmor’s greater plans. That’s why I’m ceding the throne to Balgruuf. He’s a warrior and politician.”

            Laina wrestled her temper and magic back under control. “I had no intention of marrying him before and even less so now. Have a tilt at him if you’d like. Better Balgruuf than Erik.”

            Now it was Elisif’s turn to glare. “You think I’d seduce the Dragonborn – or Balgruuf – just like that?”

            “You’re from High Rock and suckled politics from your Ma’s teat,” Laina said bluntly. “I’m sure you’re mourning Torygg but you’re too much of a political creature to not consider the possibilities of becoming Queen yet again or being the Dragonborn’s lover.”

            Elisif laughed a little sourly. “It’s the curse of being a Count’s daughter. Even when you want to lose yourself in grief, you can’t because people rely on you to be smart and cunning for them.”

            Laina echoed the laugh. “I’m a bloody apple farmer and I still have to be like that.”

            “Because, deep in your bones, you can’t just stand there and not do something,” Elisif said quietly. “Your mother will find you, sooner or later. Do you really think the Stormsword will let you live?”

            “What do you want?” Laina repeated wearily.

            “Well, I’d want you to pick up the apple farm and move to Haafingar,” Elisif said with a hint of dry humour.

            “You can’t transplant fully grown apple trees like that, even if I wanted to,” Laina countered.

            “I know.” Elisif sighed. “Balgruuf told me you’re his agent.”

            “I handle some problems for him now and then,” Laina said carefully. “What do you want?”

            “Your brother Bjarni is the new Jarl of Falkreath. Very technically, he’s not a traitor because he hasn’t raised arms against the Empire… yet. Your other brother Egil’s disappeared. He was supposed to command the Stormcloak forces in Dawnstar but no one knows what happened to him… or them.”

            “…You want me to what? Convince Bjarni to side with the Empire and find Egil to do the same?” Laina was already shaking her head. “They’re true Nords, Elisif. They won’t betray their family. Aurelia Callaina is dead. Let her stay that way.”

            “Does your family know that you remember who you are?” Elisif asked softly.

            “I don’t know. To be honest, I don’t care.” Laina met the younger woman’s indigo eyes. “My family’s in Rorikstead.”

            “I guess it is,” Elisif agreed. “You’re lucky to have Jouane and Rorik as fathers.”

            “Believe me,” Laina said fervently, “I know. Now, was there a point to you revealing that you know who I am, or were you winding me up for the inevitable but expected betrayal to the Thalmor as a diversion for whatever wily High Rock scheme you’ve got going on?”

            “My surname isn’t Revanche,” Elisif said with a flash of humour. “But… I wanted to ask you to do something that’s to our mutual benefit. You don’t have to – I could probably get the Penitus Oculatus to do it – but if you do it… Both of us win.”

            “What do you want me to do?”

            Elisif told her and Laina could only come to the conclusion that the Jarl of Solitude was batshit insane.

…

“ _That’s_ the Listener?” The deep, even-toned Redguard voice was sceptical. Cicero sighed and reminded himself that years of apostasy and poor leadership had left the Brotherhood clueless.

            “Yes, it is,” the Keeper responded with only a hint of shrillness to his voice as the young Nord shrieked to the heavens, cursing the Aedra in general and Stendarr in particular.

            The Redguard laughed. He’d been part of the Bruma cell years ago until the Great War sent him elsewhere. It had been sheer chance – or more likely the will of the Dread Father – that saw them meeting again in Skyrim. “I hope he Listens better than he leads.”

            Cicero smiled a little. It was cold this far north. “He will,” the Fool of Hearts crooned. “Cicero knows he’s always been an obedient son. Our mother will be a better one than his own.”

            “That’s not hard,” growled the Redguard. “But… if the Night Mother only speaks to the Listener, how did you know he’s the Listener?”

            The jester smiled. “Cicero was sent a message written on the back of an Argonian concubine.”

            The Redguard went still. “Shit.”

            “What’s wrong, dear Brother?” Cicero eyed his sibling sideways.

            “Sithis isn’t the only one with His finger in the pie.”


	10. No Glory in War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, torture, misogyny, war crimes and mentions of genocide, religious persecution, rape/non-con, suicide, imprisonment and child abuse/abandonment. If Laina was a Dragon Age mage, she’d be a Force Mage, and some of her telekinetic fighting style reflects that. The rest is inspired by Mass Effect biotics.

 

“Egil and his soldiers barely got past Winterhold,” the scout reported nervously, eyes flicking between Ralof and Sigdrifa. “Frozen solid, most of them. Arch-Mage Onmund says that the Atmoran Howl got them because they weren’t prepared.”

            Sigdrifa just stared at the Stormcloak. “Where’s Egil?”

            “We don’t know. Arch-Mage Onmund couldn’t find him with scrying.” The scout gulped, avoiding her gaze.

            “You believe Arch-Mage Onmund?” Sigdrifa said icily. Had the College been subverted?

            “Of course I do!” the scout retorted. “He’s from Dawnstar himself, a member of the Broken-Tusk clan!”

            Ralof stirred, his weary face drawn with sorrow. “A poor but respected horker-hunter clan. If anyone knows the conditions between Winterhold and Dawnstar, it’s them.”

            “I was there when Onmund warned Egil about the weather,” Kai Wet-Pommel of Winterhold said softly. “Your son ignored good advice from a local, Stormsword. He got sixty men killed because he thought he could use the blizzard as cover for invading Dawnstar.”

            “Not just killed, but damned as ice wraiths or sea ghosts,” the scout said flatly. “I lost a brother and four cousins because of his arrogance.”

            Sigdrifa resisted the urge to spit the scout. Murdering the courier always sent a bad message to the rest of the soldiery. Instead she exchanged glances with Calder, her huscarl. For the maligning of Egil, the scout would die, drowned so that no Priest of Tsun or Kyne could commune with the dead. But not immediately. No, he would be drunk when he fell from the docks of Windhelm.

            She might have responded except that Jorleif burst into the Great Hall, a pigeon in one hand, a message in the other. “The Empire found Balgruuf’s price,” the Steward said without preamble. “I didn’t think Elisif was that smart.”

            “I suppose it was a high one,” Ralof said, sitting up.

            “Aye. She’s offered him the High King’s crown, ceding her claim to his.” Despite the urgency of the news, Jorleif looked impressed. Sigdrifa supposed the politician admired the unexpected move of an enemy.

            “That gullveig son of a bitch!” she snarled. “I’ll pike his head at the gates of Whiterun!”

            “If we strike, we better do it now,” Ralof observed grimly. “The Dragonborn’s off to High Hrothgar and most of the Companions are away from Whiterun.”

            Sigdrifa took a deep breath and throttled her rage. If Egil was dead… Damn Balgruuf. That power-hungry cunt!

            “You’re from Whiterun,” she said tightly, looking at the Jarl of Windhelm. “How would you strike?”

            “Set fire to the fields,” Ralof replied. “That will pull Balgruuf’s soldiers out of position. Some of the farms on the Dawnstar border should work.”

            “Aren’t the richer ones nearer to Whiterun on the south side of the road?” Calder pointed out.

            Wuunferth, hitherto silent, started laughing harshly. “And pick a fight with Laina of Snjobera Farm? The woman’s acknowledged to be one of the finest Alteration experts in Skyrim and as a Destruction mage, she’s my superior.”

            “Yeah, bad idea,” Ralof agreed.

            “Mages can die with a sword in their gut,” Sigdrifa said harshly. “Eliminate her.”

            “As you wish,” Ralof said with a sigh. “A shame. She’s a good woman.”

            Sigdrifa’s mouth peeled back in a snarl. “If she’s loyal to Balgruuf, she’s no true Nord.”

…

Erik was near High Hrothgar, stopping to have some lunch and admire the spread of the Whiterun plains beneath him, when he and Vilkas saw the smoke rising from the farms. “Fuck,” the arms master said heavily. “The Stormsword responds to Balgruuf.”

            “They’re burning the winter crops!” Erik exclaimed. “Whiterun – Skyrim’s – gonna starve!”

            “From a tactical point of view, it’s a good decision,” the Companion said grimly. “From a strategic point of view… Not so much. Sigdrifa will make enemies among the churls and franklins with this.”

            “I’m a Thane of Whiterun.” Erik hadn’t planned on becoming a noble, but he knew what his duty was. “I should be there.”

            “You’re the Dragonborn,” Vilkas reminded him, eyes hard as steel. “Balgruuf made this gamble and the Stormsword’s called his bluff.”

            “But…” Erik glanced away from the Companion’s gaze. “Rorikstead’s gonna be alright?”

            “Rorik is wise. He’ll bow his head to whoever’s Jarl.” Vilkas placed a hand on Erik’s shoulder and squeezed. “Let’s go. We need to go to High Hrothgar. The World-Eater waits on no one.”

…

Laina was working in the orchard when the Stormcloaks attacked. Her skin rippled with power after the first arrow grazed her shoulder, hardening into a consistency like dragon skin. Her bronze jewellery and simple garments, all heavily enchanted, meant that she was ready to cast by the time she spun around to face a brown-haired man in bearskins and his friends. A dozen soldiers, excessive for one woman with a knack for farming magic.

            “The Stormsword has given orders that you’re to be eliminated,” the Stormcloak commander said calmly, unslinging his battleaxe. “We’ll make it quick.”

            _I did what she told me to,_ Laina thought, the slow burn of rage and betrayal seeping through her veins. Elisif had cracked the ice-shell she’d placed around the memory of her childhood. She’d remembered a lot over the past few years but still she remained silent, content to farm. And that still wasn’t good enough for her mother.

            “I will not die to bury the Stormsword’s sins,” Laina snarled as she gathered her magicka into both hands. This was her place. Her home. The soil, the trees, the very stones resonated with her power. “If any of you survive, tell her that.”

            The commander realised she was casting and ordered his archers to finish her. Pity that Dragonhide made them no worse than the bite of flies in the Morthal bogs. Laina slammed her right hand into the soil at her feet.

            Cracks appeared in the rich dark earth and the Stormcloaks were flung into the air to float around helplessly, as were the farm tools she’d been working with. Laina jerked her left hand back at the pruning hook, Telekinetically calling it to her. It passed through the commander’s head, splitting it in two. She clenched her right fist again and slammed it into the ground, dropping the Stormcloaks with the crunch of broken bones.

            Half the soldiers staggered to their feet and Laina danced back, magicka rushing back to fill the empty void. She cast Oakflesh to guard against arrows but a steel sword managed to slice through her arm. _Bastards._

            “Did the Stormsword tell you why you were sent to kill me?” she demanded, pruning hook catching the swordswoman in the side. Rorik had taught all his people how to use their farming tools as the weapons they were.

            “She said you weren’t a true Nord,” answered one of the groggy Stormcloaks as he swayed, barely standing up. “Because you use magic.”

            “My mother was a Nord,” Laina said almost gently. “If I’m not a true Nord, what does that make the Stormsword?”

            Lightning began to flicker around her body, hair rising as the air smelt of ozone. If the Stormcloaks wanted a storm, then she would give them one. She’d always had an affinity for sky magic.

            Thunder crashed across the sky as blue-green lightning arced down to strike in a localised area. Each bolt found a target and by the time the storm passed a heartbeat later, few of the Stormcloaks were alive, and none standing. Most were now ash to fertilise her apple trees.

            The pruning hook took care of the rest and once it was done, her stomach purged of all contents, Laina ran for the cottage. Balgruuf needed to be warned.

…

Avulstein Grey-Mane’s fists clenched. What was being asked of him was wrong, dishonourable. But if he didn’t, how would Thorald be avenged? But if he did, he would besmirch a holy place of the Companions.

            Irkand Aurelius stood on the wall overlooking the eastern farms under the view of High Hrothgar. “This is brutal, even by Sigdrifa’s standards,” the Harbinger noted grimly. “If I’d known she’d do this, I would have killed her during the Great War.”

            Avulstein climbed up to join him. There was a little time yet until night. The Battle-Born and Chilfurrow Farms burned below them. Wintersand Manor already little more than ash, and when he looked to the south more smoke came from the Honningbrew Meadery and Pelagia Farm. Snjobera Farm too, he supposed. But burning buildings were nothing compared to what was being done to the farmers. “The-the…”

            “Alfhild Battle-Born, Nazeem, Severio Pelagia and that couple from just over the Dawnstar,” Irkand said tonelessly. “I don’t see Laina.”

            “The blood-eagle… It’s supposed to be for-for nithings,” Avulstein stammered as the screams of the civilians reached his ears. “Even Nazeem didn’t…”

            “Is that what you Nords call it?” Irkand’s tone was thick with disgust. “I’m not a good man by any means, Avulstein, but that sickens me. Even Elenwen might feel it a tad excessive to use on simple farmers.”

            Whiterun would starve. The Stormcloaks were setting fire to the fields.

            “I didn’t know,” Avulstein breathed. “I didn’t know it would be this bad.”

            “You thought fighting for the glory of mighty Talos would be sunshine, fair winds and bloodless battles?” Irkand asked scornfully. “No, Grey-Mane. It’s blood and screams and storms.”

            As if to punctuate his words, lightning cracked from the sky above, faintly turquoise in appearance. Laina was fighting back.

            “Behold!” the Harbinger said, his oiled-silk voice ringing across the thunder. “The liberation of Skyrim is at hand! Sure, some civilians died screaming, but they don’t matter in the scheme of things, do they?”

            Avulstein watched in horror as the soldiers fitted images to the words of the old epics. “The Legion’s no better,” he managed to choke out.

            “No, they’re not,” Irkand agreed. “Skyrim will starve by spring. Even if Sigdrifa wins, she will have cut her own throat.”

            The wonder-smith imagined those soldiers let loose on the streets of Whiterun. The women claimed by the victors to do with as they willed. The men blood-eagled. Balgruuf and his family murdered brutally.

            His hand opening the Underforge to the army that drowned Whiterun in blood.

            “I-I can’t,” he choked. “Talos forgive me, I can’t!”

            “That is a very great relief,” Irkand said, his voice closer to normal. “It would have been a great shame to kill the only wonder-smith in Skyrim.”

            Avulstein looked down to see the tip of Irkand’s ebony wazikashi pressed against his leather tunic. “You would have murdered me!”

            “To spare the civilians the atrocities of war? Aye and aye again.” Irkand sheathed his knife. “Sigdrifa is violating the laws of war. She’s already given Rikke a moral victory.”

            The lightning over Snjobera Farm died and Avulstein flinched. Had Laina won?

            Not ten minutes later, he received his answer as the horns of Irileth’s troops sounded across the tundra, the dark elf huscarl thundering with the Whiterun cavalry behind her and a hawk that transformed into Laina on the top of the gates. Avulstein came from Reacher blood through his mother Fralia and the power of the Grey-Mane wonder-smiths ran in his veins. He’d made much of Laina’s jewellery and knew that she wove enchantments in her plain garments, both eschewing the soul gems used by mer magics. The breath and magic of Kyne’s own children were enough, if not as powerful.

            The charging Stormcloaks were caught between great walls of ice that channelled them into wooden spikes that emerged from nowhere and the great charge of Irileth’s cavalry. Laina was berserk, unleashing her sorcery with devastating efficiency, and Irileth was brutally methodical.

            Faced with such enemies, the Stormcloaks broke and fled, pursued by great icy spears cast by Laina until she collapsed.

            Irkand swore and jumped off the wall, running for the gates. Avulstein followed, sickened to the core. There was nothing glorious about war and no god was worth such atrocities.


	11. The Fate of Traitors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, desecration of corpses, slavery and fantastic racism involving minors, and mention of torture. References to the storyline of card game Elder Scrolls: Legends; I don’t play it, but it’s such a badass story to add to Irkand’s history.

 

Acting General Rikke considered herself to be a simple Nord with traditional values. Born in the Old Holds, trained as a Shieldmaiden and refined as a Legionnaire, to her war was something to be achieved as swiftly as possible with a minimum of casualties. If that necessitated an ambush or even the odd assassination, then so be it. But the final battle had to be in the open where soldiers could fight fairly, earning their passage to Sovngarde.

            What Hadvar showed her in the Great Hall of Dragonsreach was none of that.

            “Talos titty-fucking Dibella,” Irkand Aurelius blasphemed in shaken tones. “How the _fuck_ did they get out?”

            “The old escape route through the prison,” Irileth said heavily. Her fingers were stained scarlet from where she closed the eyes of Balgruuf and his family. Only Hrongar, riding with the huscarl to repel the attacks on Whiterun’s fields, was spared. “I will carve the Stormsword’s liver out with a butter knife.”

            “Spoon,” Irkand advised. “Hurts more.”

            “Fingers,” Hrongar growled. “Hurts _most_.”

            “Cut your fingernails and buff them first,” Irkand suggested. The Harbinger rubbed his face. “I talked Avulstein out of letting them inside. If he knew about this, may he have a clean death? I think he was sickened by the blood-eagles at the farms.”

            “I can do that,” Rikke said with a sigh. “Somebody get Father Andurs. Stitching together everything for burning’s going to take a while.”

            Farengar, the court wizard, was only too happy to go. The man had been so wrapped up in his experiments on the Great Porch that he didn’t hear the likely screams of Balgruuf and his family as they were cut to pieces and arranged in the runes for ‘Traitor’.

            “What we need to know is how they got inside,” Rikke finally said.

            “Andurs will be able to do that,” Hadvar said but Irileth was already shaking her head, expression sick.

            “No,” the huscarl said heavily. “They were soul-trapped.”

            Irkand exploded with a string of Akaviri curses as vivid as the ones he uttered during the Battle of the Red Ring wearing another man’s armour. Necromancy was something that pissed the Redguard off to no end.

            Rikke closed her eyes. “Round up the Grey-Manes. We need answers.”

            When the clan was dragged into the Great Hall, Avulstein threw up. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know, oh Talos…”

            Old Vignar lifted his chin defiantly. “He sold out Skyrim for gold and power. Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

            “I will make this simple,” Rikke said grimly. “I want to know how the assassins got into Whiterun. Tell me everything and I will give you a death worthy of Sovngarde. Lie to me and you will all die on the cross.”

            Avulstein hung his head. “I was to let in some soldiers through an entrance known to the Companions. After the-the farms, I-I couldn’t.”

            “You milk-drinking coward!” Vignar shook his fist at his nephew. “How could you spit on Talos like that?”

            The wonder-smith flinched but raised his eyes. “If that’s what serving Talos is all about… then to Oblivion with Him. I accept my punishment, General Rikke.”

            Rikke exchanged glances with Irkand. “Harbinger?”

            “He’s the last wonder-smith in Skyrim,” the ex-Blade said softly. “If we lose him…”

            “And Vignar is a Companion. Dammit!” Rikke turned from everyone, cursing Sigdrifa inwardly. What she and Ulfric had done to Skyrim was unthinkable.

            “No, he isn’t,” Irkand said firmly. “When he got involved in politics and committed treason, he removed himself from the heroes of Jorrvaskr.”

            Rikke turned around to face the old Thane. “Was anyone other than Avulstein and you involved in this?”  
            He met her eyes defiantly. “No. I only involved Avulstein because I can’t open the Underforge. He didn’t know about the assassination.”

            Eorlund stepped forward, only to be pushed back by Hadvar. “Brother-!”

            Rikke looked at Olfina and Fralia. Both held themselves as Nords should but they were white as snow. No guilt there, only shame and horror at Vignar’s actions.

            “Fine. Jarl Hrongar, do you have anything to say?”

            The new Jarl of Whiterun regarded Vignar with such hate that it was a surprise the old man didn’t keel over on the spot. “I want this one crucified. The Grey-Manes are stripped of their properties and rank in Whiterun. They are churls, all of them. Avulstein can go to the Companions for judgment. He betrayed them, if not Whiterun.”

            Irkand’s mouth tightened. “Then Avulstein is bound to the Jorrvaskr bounds unless accompanied by a Companion. It’s as much mercy as I can show.”

            Hrongar smiled coldly. “I’ll have him branded as a thrall. What of Eorlund and the women?”

            “They’re welcome to stay at Jorrvaskr. Eorlund and his family have served us well.” Irkand sighed as Fralia began to wail. “Sigdrifa has violated the laws of war and tried to undermine our neutrality. When the Companions return from their various jobs, the Circle will need to decide on our response to that.”

            Andurs, Danica and an extremely wan-looking woman with long black hair in leather-wrapped tails arrived alongside Farengar. This was the first time that Rikke had seen Aurelia Callaina – or Laina these days – and the resemblance to Sigdrifa was striking. “I’m going to need a few hours or every fucking magicka potion in Whiterun to track the assassins,” the apple farmer said wearily.

            “I can do it,” Farengar said grimly. “I failed the Jarl. I can at least track his killers.”

            “Hadvar,” Rikke said, turning to her loyal aide and Praefect. “Round up some local Legionnaires and run these bastards to earth. Bring them back alive and mostly intact and I don’t fucking care if you need to cross into Falkreath or any other Hold. They murdered the man who would have been High King and his family. Treat them accordingly.”

            “Yes, ma’am.” Hadvar saluted.

            Rikke nodded and he left the Great Hall. She turned to Andurs. “Prepare these bodies for burning, Father. They’ve been soul-trapped, but that’s to remain secret.”

            “I’ve heard that it’s possible to free a soul from a soul gem if we get our hands on it,” Laina said quietly.

            “Yes. It’s a gift the Priests of Tu’whacca have,” Irkand confirmed, glancing at his niece. “We’ll need to speak to T’roc in the Redguard Embassy.”

            “Or Falion in Morthal,” Laina said. “He can… well, I think if it can be done to cure vampirism, it can be done to free souls from the Soul Cairn.”

            “Falion’s a Conjurer,” Irkand pointed out.

            “And Beroc will skin us for everything we’ve got if we approach him,” Rikke countered.

            Irkand’s smile was sad. “Not precisely. He’ll leave enough to keep you warm in winter.”

            Rikke sighed and cursed Sigdrifa again.

…

Vignar Grey-Mane watched the cross being built calmly. He’d failed Skyrim but most of his family would survive. Avulstein deserved his thrall’s brand for the cowardice.

            Irkand Aurelius came up beside him. “You didn’t know a damn thing about the assassination,” the assassin murmured in his ear, speaking Yokudan.

            “No,” Vignar admitted in the same language. “Sigdrifa didn’t want me to know, assuming it was her.”

            “Oh, it was her,” the Redguard observed. “It’s got the same viciousness she’s always shown.”  
            “Balgruuf was a traitor,” Vignar pointed out.

            “No. He was a politician and a patriot trying to end this war quickly.” Irkand’s fingers pressed against a particular spot in Vignar’s neck and his entire body went numb from the collarbone down. “When you see mist, _run_. The World-Eater devours the souls of heroes in Sovngarde.”

            He stepped away and watched the soldiers drag Vignar Grey-Mane to the cross.

            Not one scream did the old Companion utter from nailing to the final spear in the side.

…

Erik sat on a boulder in the courtyard of High Hrothgar, his head in his hands. The Greybeards wouldn’t let him go until he knew the full history of the Dragonborn from Ysmir to Talos. The sins and the triumphs, the glories and the failures. Whiterun – Rorikstead – could be burning and they wanted him to learn history!

            “I almost understand why the Blades get irritated with the Greybeards,” Vilkas noted as he offered some journey-bread to the Dragonborn. Every other day he made the trip down to Ivarstead for news and supplies.

            Erik took the bread and gnawed on it. Snowberry jam was spread thinly across its bland surface. “’Almost’?”

            “We don’t have time to arse around reading books while dragons are tearing up Skyrim,” the Companion said flatly. “Then I think about all the atrocities the dragons do and understand why the Greybeards mightn’t want you to grow too powerful too soon.”

            “I don’t fucking care about the dragons at the moment,” Erik admitted unhappily. “I’m worried about Whiterun. I should be down there.”

            Vilkas sat down heavily and sighed. “Good news: the Stormcloak attack was repulsed.”

            “What’s the bad news?”

            “Assassins murdered Jarl Balgruuf and his family. We’re back to square one when it comes to a decent High King.”

            “Elisif’s not that bad!” Erik retorted reflexively. He had to admit the beautiful Jarl had been on his mind a lot, pregnant widow or not.

            “She isn’t. But she’s young and hasn’t even killed an ice wraith, let alone planned a war or even fought in one.” Vilkas sighed and spat in disgust. “Damn the Jarls. Damn their politics.”

            Erik couldn’t agree more. “I should’ve been there.”

            “The Stormsword timed the attack for when you weren’t there. She doesn’t want the world to end either.” Vilkas gnawed on a bit of journey-bread. “Do you know what the Greybeards want you to do next?”

            “Go to Ustengrav near Morthal,” Erik said unhappily. “I have to retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller.”

            “We can stop off at Whiterun on the way and check with Irkand,” Vilkas said. “The dragons must be your priority.”

            “I know, I know.” Erik rose to his feet. “I might as well tell the Greybeards we’re going tomorrow. Sitting around reading old books I don’t understand isn’t helping.”

            Vilkas nodded. “Good. Hopefully, Farkas and the rest will be back. The news from Whiterun was pretty grim.”

            From the top of a mountain the leader of the Greybeards watched the temporal cascade and sighed. Bormahu have mercy on all creatures.


	12. Family Revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, torture, assassination, mutilation and desecration of corpses involving minors.

 

Torjon Broken-Tusk was just past his ice-wraith hunt when he joined the Stormcloaks to free Skyrim from the Empire. It wasn’t as glorious as the epics depicted – occasionally even brutal – but Galmar and Hjornskar explained the violence was necessary. He experienced his first doubts after the dragon attack at Helgen, seeing how Sigdrifa Stormsword eliminated most of Ulfric’s supporters. If Ralof hadn’t been the late Jarl’s blood-brother and heir, he would have died too.

            Now minus his right leg from the knee down and half his hand on the same side, the glory had gone out of the war. The Legionnaires had brought him and two other survivors of Hjornskar’s squad into the Temple of Kynareth, where Danica Pure-Spring gave one nightshade because he was too broken to save. Torjon and Helga Hard-Heart would survive to be interrogated. He prayed silently to Tsun, the God of Trials and Endurance, that he could resist their torturers.

            It was three days after the fruitless attack on Snjobera Farm when the mage who slaughtered twelve soldiers in about five minutes and apparently destroyed the invading army not an hour later arrived at the Temple. “A farmer with some Destruction and Alteration magic,” Hjornskar described her as. If she hadn’t bled, Torjon would have sworn she was an incarnation of Kyne the way she brought the storm down on the Stormcloaks.

            “Laina,” Danica said warningly.

            “I’m not here to cause trouble,” the black-haired woman with Imperial-bronze skin replied. “Rikke’s agreed to send these two back to Windhelm as messengers. I have something I want them to tell the Stormsword.”

            “I’m surprised Jarl Hrongar allowed it,” the priestess observed.

            “Hrongar’s not as canny as his brother but he’s not the idiot everyone paints him to be,” Laina said quietly. “And as a general, he’s Balgruuf’s better.”

            That was true. Irileth was an experienced commander but Hrongar knew which orders to give an army.

            Helga managed to sit up on her pallet despite the bloodstained bandages wrapped around her torso. “Why don’t you finish the job?” she asked Laina. “Sigdrifa doesn’t forgive failure.”

            “I know that, far better than you,” Laina said grimly. “Tell the Stormsword this: ‘She should have forgotten I was her daughter, that I was Aurelii, because she got a lot of soldiers killed’. Aurelia Callaina is coming for her and no kin-blood will soften my hand.”

            Her eyes were narrow and mouth tight. In that moment, Torjon realised she was telling the truth.

            “She’ll kill us for sure,” he said. “I’m not afraid to go to Sovngarde-“

            “You should be,” the mage interrupted. “Alduin hunts the souls of Legionnaire and Stormcloak alike in the mists of Sovngarde. This war’s only making Him stronger.”

            “Shit,” Helga breathed. “We’re fucked either way.”

            “I don’t care,” Laina said, turning away. “If you don’t deliver the message, someone else will. Hell, I might even enchant a bird.”

            When she left the room, Danica on her heels, Torjon and Helga exchanged looks. The Stormsword had a daughter? That was high treason if Ulfric didn’t know.

            The scout knew he had to survive to share this news with Ralof. Sigdrifa was the Stormcloaks’ worst enemy.

…

Erik came riding in with Vilkas four days after the death of Balgruuf. The Dragonborn was furious, his face near as scarlet as his hair, and Hrongar noted the glint of shame in his eyes. The young always blamed themselves for things that couldn’t be changed. But Hrongar would make use of that sense of guilt regardless.

            With the death of her cousins, Lydia was raised to heir to Whiterun and promised to Idolaf Battle-Born. Hrongar knew when a man wasn’t interested in a woman, so he didn’t even bother throwing his niece at Erik like Balgruuf wanted. The Dragonborn was all eyes for Elisif. If the Jarl of Solitude wasn’t factoring that into her plans, Hrongar was a Greybeard.

            “The Greybeards kept me.” The words tumbled out of Erik’s mouth as he strode up to the Stallion Throne. “Shit, Jarl, I…”

            Hrongar was surprised into a weak chuckle. Finding his family, even his brother’s brat kids, had broken his heart and he was surprised he could find humour in Erik’s lack of protocol. “I don’t keep state like my brother,” he said. “And Alduin takes precedence over… everything.”

            Erik flushed darker. “I should have been here,” he insisted. “The Greybeards insisted on me reading all these histories I didn’t understand.”

            “Balgruuf studied with them, you know?” Hrongar said quietly. “He told me once the Greybeards had histories of every Dragonborn ever born.”

            “Not quite all of them, according to Irkand,” Vilkas said with a sigh. “So Vignar betrayed Whiterun and the Companions?”

            “Aye. I crucified him for it,” Hrongar admitted. “He died well though. Avulstein’s been thralled to Jorrvaskr and I believe the womenfolk are being sheltered in the meadhall.”

            “Fucking hell.” Vilkas shook his head in disgust. “If we’d known, Jarl…”

            “I know. Irkand said much the same.” Hrongar rubbed his nose. How could Balgruuf relish the politics? He was already a little crazy from it. “I don’t blame the Companions.”

            “Thank you. We’re neutral for a reason.” Vilkas paused thoughtfully. “Though… it may be possible we declare Sigdrifa Stormsword nithing. To undermine the sanctity of Jorrvaskr and the Circle…”

            “Will that help?” Erik asked. “This war… I can’t fight dragons and dodge Stormcloaks, but if I focus on one, the other will attack.”

            “Worry about the dragons,” Hrongar told him. “Rikke’s a good general.”

            “I still think I should do something,” Erik said bitterly. “I was a Thane who wasn’t here to protect his Hold.”

            Hrongar leaned in his seat. “A public statement of support for the Empire would help,” he finally said. “Speaking as Erik the Dragon-Slayer of Rorikstead, not Erik the Dragon-Slayer of Jorrvaskr.”

            “A fine edge to that knife,” Vilkas observed. “But within the bounds of honour.”

            “There’s another way the Companions could help.” Adrianne Avenicci, uncomfortable in the fine garb required of a Steward, put in her two septims. “A lot of issues are going unresolved because soldiers are dedicated to guarding the Holds. If the heirs of Ysgramor were willing to work for a nominal fee and loot…”

            Vilkas nodded. “I’ll put that idea forward to the Harbinger. It’s an honourable suggestion.”

            “And Irkand Aurelius is an honourable man,” Hrongar agreed.

            “More than you realise,” General Rikke said on entering the Great Hall with Irileth beside her. With Balgruuf’s death, the Dunmer would return to her nomadic ways. “Public support from the Dragonborn and the Companions focusing on the everyday dangers in the Holds will go a long way.”

            “Is Jarl Elisif once again the Imperial candidate for the High King’s throne?” Adrianne asked bluntly.

            “Yes,” Rikke confirmed. “There’s no one else.”

            “She’s at least proven herself to put Skyrim ahead of her whims,” Hrongar said heavily. “Whiterun will march with the Empire on Windhelm, General.”

            “Appreciated,” Rikke said. “I’ve got soldiers hunting your brother’s killers. The gods willing, they’ll be brought in alive.”

            Hrongar smiled coldly. “I’ll start preparing the crosses.”

…

“Good morning, Listener!”

            The high-pitched tones of the jester he’d assisted near the Loreius Farm penetrated Egil’s comfortable darkness. He rolled over and groaned, putting a pillow over his head. In sleep, he could forget his failure.

            _Don’t be rude,_ chided the soft, motherly voice in his head, the one who guided him through the blizzard that killed his men. _Dear Cicero’s made breakfast for you._

“I know that darkness rises when silence dies, but did you have to kill the silence so thoroughly?” Egil groaned, obeying his Mother. “My head hurts.”

            “Cicero doesn’t like the silence,” the jester said sadly. “He is very sorry for waking you, Listener, but the Family’s gathered.”

            His Family. The ones who saved him from the winter-death and the shame of failure. He should have listened to Onmund and stayed indoors.

            _Your soldiers likely would have died anyway,_ his Mother said gently. _Brina Merilis was a Legate in the Imperial Army and was ready for you._

 _I led them to their deaths!_ Egil protested as he sat up. A piece of flatbread smeared with snowberry jam and a cup of what looked like snowberry juice was placed in front of him.

            _Yes, you did,_ Mother agreed. _But now you know better._

That was a point.

            Egil devoured his breakfast as Cicero laid out red and black robes. “Formal occasions require formal attire,” the jester explained.

            “At least that’s more comfortable than the chainmail we had to wear in Windhelm,” Egil conceded. “So, who’s here?”

            “A Sister from the Kreathling Sanctuary,” Cicero said. “The Demon-Child of Wayrest. A Brother who survived the purging of the Sentinel Sanctuary. And a new Sister from Morrowind we picked up in Whiterun.”

            “The mercenary Jenassa?” Egil guessed. She was considered something of a minor deniable asset by his former mother, used in jobs where viciousness was needed.

            “Yes.” Cicero grinned. “Did Mother tell you that?”  
            “Actually, no. Her reputation as… an artist… precedes her.” Egil rose to his feet, gave himself a quick wash and then donned his robes. After rejecting Stendarr and being embraced by his new Family, he felt almost normal. Almost relieved.

            The Siblings were gathered at a long table set with a fine array of foods, most of it alien to Egil. A broad-shouldered Redguard with his hair in long braids was mincing goat’s meat by the cooking pot. “Hope you don’t mind Yokudan cooking,” the Brother said with a grin. “I can’t bring myself to boil beans and meat into mush.”

            “If it’s edible, I’m good,” Egil assured him. His eyes watered as he tried to place the handsome middle-aged warrior.

            “Take off the amulet,” Cicero chided. “The Listener needs to recognise you.”

            The Redguard laughed and removed a small silver amulet, his features sharpening into a broad-browed, beaky-nosed, blue-eyed fusion of Yokudan and Colovian. “I hope you’re discreet about this,” the Hammerfell Ambassador to Skyrim said dryly. “Me and thee could do a lot of damage to each other.”

            “I have no mother other than the one who Speaks to me,” Egil said softly. “ _She_ , at least, loves me.”

            “I can well believe that,” Rustem Aurelius agreed. “You have… had… a sister.”

            _Have,_ Mother said softly. _She isn’t one of us but she’ll have a part to play in the Family’s business._

“This is interesting,” the tiny Breton child whose eyes glowed like embers said from her stool. “But we need to learn what the Night Mother needs of us.”

            Egil smiled a little as Mother whispered something. “Jenassa will be meeting a man named Armand Motierre at Volunruud.”

            Rustem’s eyes widened and then he grinned. “I think I know what’s going on! And if I’m not allowed to have a hand in it, I’ll be very hurt.”

            _Tell Rustem the time for his clan’s vengeance is at hand,_ Mother whispered. _And you’ll have a kind of vengeance too._

 _What do you mean?_ Egil asked.

            She was silent and the Listener sighed. At least she hadn’t told him to shut up and find out for himself.


	13. Attachment and Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of war crimes, child abuse/neglect, slavery and torture.

 

The Companions had returned. Scouts-Many-Marshes was now a full member of the Circle, declining the beast-blood (“I don’t think werecrocodiles would do well in Skyrim”), but even the whelps would have a say in this meeting. Olfina Grey-Mane had asked to become a whelp herself and interestingly (or not so much, given the rumours) Jon Battle-Born applied the next day. Irkand gave his blessing to the pair of them – allowing old hatreds to fester once victory was achieved led to greater sorrow in the future. Hrongar yelled at him over it. Irkand told the Jarl to shut up. Remarkably, it worked.

            But the crown jewel of it all was Irileth. The _Nerevarine herself_ asked to join. “Balgruuf is dead and my debt to him paid,” the Dunmer said flatly. “I’ve lived through one prophecy. Maybe I can help Erik bear this one.”

            “I’d appreciate some of Azura’s foresight in this whole mess,” Irkand admitted.

            Irileth’s smile was sour. “There is none. I can’t see past Alduin’s return.”

            “Well, shit.” Irkand rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll put it to the Circle that you be raised to Companion immediately. It’s been known to happen with someone of skill and renown.”

            “And outside of certain mer and Daedric Princes, there’s no one who knows the art of war more than I,” Irileth agreed calmly. For a moment, her scarlet eyes screamed pain, and Irkand wondered how close she and Balgruuf had been.

            “The Harbinger’s here if you need a shoulder,” Irkand offered gently.

            She shook her head. “I appreciate it. But only blood will wash this grief from my soul.”

            Irkand held that ancient gaze. “I’ve no problem with the ways of Mephala and Boethiah but as a Companion, vengeance must be achieved Nordic style. I know it’s not as fun but the rules must be observed.”

            “I was born in Cyrodiil and left Morrowind as soon as I could,” Irileth said softly. “I… am not comfortable among many Dunmer. But I imagine you were like that with the Alik’r.”

            “Yes,” Irkand admitted. “Being a Cyrod-born assassin… didn’t make me popular. Rustem was old enough to remember the Yokudan ways Mother taught him. I wasn’t.”

            “You understand.” Irileth smiled weakly.

            “I’m Harbinger. It’s my job to understand.” Irkand sighed and stood up. “Everyone should be gathered now.”

            This was going to be an interesting meeting.

…

Laina didn’t have good memories of Falkreath. She tried not to dwell on them.

            Nestled between the Jeralls and the forest, the town was more populated by the dead than the living. No wonder so many necromancers flocked to this Hold. Guards in dark blue mantles patrolled the streets, keeping an eye on the three Khajiit merchants plying their wares by a well. _Interesting,_ she mused. Stormcloaks usually had no time for the cat-folk. Five or six Alik’r from Hammerfell were haggling with the Khajiit, their leader a loud obnoxious sort.

            She jumped from the wagon, the driver helping her with the handcart and kegs. Ten years of work had made her cider and wines the best in Skyrim. Because she didn’t fight Maven for the mead market, the Black-Briar matriarch kept the sabotage to a minimum. Laina delivered most of her product herself to prevent the majority of it. Thieves got the point after a lightning bolt or two.

            One of the guards came over. “Who are you and what’s your business here?”

            “I’m Laina and I’m delivering cider and wine from Snjobera Farm to the Deadman’s Drink,” she responded calmly.

            “I’ve never heard of Snjobera Farm,” the Paler said truculently. “We don’t want Imperials here.”

            “I’m a Nord. My father was a Redguard, my grandfather Cyrod,” Laina said with the same weary sigh she’d been uttering for years. “And of course you’ve never heard of me. I don’t make mead, Maven doesn’t make cider and you don’t look like a wine drinker.”  
            “Wine is for milk drinkers,” he sneered.

            “I’ll immediately cease production of my best-selling product to please you,” she retorted dryly.

            “That’s quite enough, Bjorn,” announced a strong baritone. “Stop harassing everyone who walks through the gate.”

            “She’s a foreigner!” Bjorn protested.

            “We’re a border Hold, you fucking idiot,” the young man in white leather, his sable hair pulled into a long braid, observed acidly. “Travellers come and go all the time.”

            “Your mother tasked me with keeping you alive,” Bjorn said firmly.

            “My mother is not Jarl here. Stop harassing the Alik’r and the traders.”

            _So this is Bjarni._ He was a bulky young man, his bear-worked leather armour showing off massive biceps and thighs despite the chill. She supposed that compared to Windhelm, this was positively warm. Her rabbit-fur mantle was a bit cold for the wind off the Jeralls but she hadn’t been able to replace it yet. Magic made people nervous, even when it could keep her warm.

            “Yes, Jarl.” Bjorn glared at Laina. “She claims she’s a Nord.”

            “Her mother was Kreathling, you idiot,” Bjarni said. “She’s got the eyes.”

            As did he, brown-flecked aqua to her gold-ringed turquoise.

            “Oh.” Bjorn flushed and slunk away.

            “He’s one of Jarl Skald’s bastards,” Bjarni explained. “Not too bright and not a huscarl of my choosing.”

            “So dismiss him,” Laina advised.

            Bjarni’s smile was thin. “Better the spy you know about than the one you don’t.”

            The Jarl turned to the kegs and picked up the heaviest with barely a pause. “I’d like to talk when you’ve delivered the drink. I was always led to believe that I was the oldest of the Kreathling blood in my generation but you… you’re what, twenty-five, twenty-six?”

            “Thirty-three or so,” Laina admitted cautiously. “I’ve no interest in Falkreath, Jarl Bjarni. I grow apple trees, not lumber trees.”

            “I don’t like the idea of a kinswoman going without her rightful inheritance,” Bjarni countered.

            “I honestly don’t care about Falkreath beyond selling my cider and wine here,” Laina said bluntly. Sooner or later her message would reach Sigdrifa and the war would begin in earnest. Bjarni would hate her, so why get friendly with him?

            The Jarl looked taken aback for a moment before nodding slowly. “…As you wish.”

            He helped her haul the kegs into the tavern and claimed two bottles of snowberry wine for himself. Laina took a room until midnight or so before donning a special set of plain miner clothing with silence and stealth runes woven into the hems. She tied her hair back with the leather thongs, enchanted to reduce the price of Alteration spells and improve her magicka regeneration, and kept her enchanted bronze jewellery on with its Destruction and Alteration enchantments. She was glad Avulstein had been saved. He did good work.

            She passed through the village and followed the heavy heartbeat of a dark door. When she reached the rightful place, by a stream black as ink, she placed her hand on the door and whispered, “Silence, my brother.”

            _“Welcome home.”_

…

Bjarni followed his kinswoman with Rayya at his back. The huscarl told him that she was an agent of Balgruuf’s… and an orphan of the Great War. Nenya, on hearing the woman’s description, went a pasty yellow and said that only Dengeir could speak of her – but would deny her existence.

            _Secrets within secrets,_ Bjarni thought sourly. When she opened the Black Door, he wondered if she was an assassin of the Dark Brotherhood. A farmer who travelled across Skyrim would make for a useful cover.

            He and Rayya opened the door themselves. This was too good a chance to pass up.

            The first body was a burly Nord man, unusually hirsute with yellow eyes. He’d been stabbed in the back with an icicle.

            “Arnbjorn,” Rayya murmured. “A known werewolf.”

            The sounds of fighting reached them and they ran into the main hall.

            Laina of Snjobera Farm was sheathed in blue-white light that outlined every fold in skin, hair and clothing, fending off an attack from an old Imperial and a Dunmer woman with a Ward while renewing a Lightning Cloak spell around her slender body. Judging by the dead lizard-man just behind, she’d claimed two members of the Dark Brotherhood.

            Nord honour was simple to Bjarni. His kinswoman was in trouble and needed help.

            Rayya’s arrow took out the Imperial mage neatly and Laina spun around, eyes widening. “Watch out for the Redguard and Astrid!” she yelled.

            The Redguard almost stabbed Bjarni in the back but Saviour’s Hide earned its name. He turned on his heel and punched the assassin in the throat with a spiked gauntlet. Rayya’s scimitar finished him.

            When they were facing Laina again, she had her hands to her throat, fingers tangled in the garotte wielded by a slim blonde woman who had to be the legendary Astrid.

            “I don’t know how you three got in here,” the Speaker said in her poisoned-honey voice. “But I’m not happy you killed three members of my family.”

            “Four,” Bjarni said with a savage grin. “The werewolf’s dead.”

            “Arnbjorn?” Astrid’s lovely face twisted in grief. “You bastards!”

            “Given he’s eaten a few of my people, I’m not weeping for him,” Bjarni said calmly. “Release the woman and I will allow you to leave. There’s another Sanctuary in Dawnstar, I believe.”

            Laina wasn’t struggling. In fact, her eyes were narrowed just like Sigdrifa’s did in concentration. The temperature was dropping and Bjarni swore he could see frost curling around the two women.

            “I kill her and we both walk away, Jarl Bjarni,” the Speaker countered. “I’m doing you a favour, you know. She’s a servant of the Empire.”

            Bjarni glanced at Rayya, who shook her head. _No deal._

            “Disengage and let’s make this a fair fight.” Bjarni smiled wryly. “Most of us are Nords here.”

            Astrid snarled and tightened the garrotte around Laina’s neck… Only it snapped, brittle from cold, and a full-blown Ice Cloak surrounded the black-haired woman.

            “You shouldn’t have murdered Balgruuf and his family,” she rasped as she began to move her arms in slow spirals. “You shouldn’t have soul-trapped them.”

            “Fall back!” Rayya yelled, pulling Bjarni into the hallway.

            They just avoided the icy winds that swirled around the main hall. When they died down, Bjarni stuck his head back into the room and saw one dead Dunmer, an exhausted-looking Laina and a sorely frostbitten Astrid. The Jarl of Falkreath pulled out the hand-axe Ralof taught him to use and threw it, splitting the Speaker’s head in two.

            “Thanks,” the mage rasped.

            Bjarni pulled off his bearskin mantle and strode to her side as Rayya made certain of the Brotherhood. “What did you mean by Balgruuf getting killed and soul-trapped?”

            Laina regarded him with flat surprise. _“You don’t know?”_

            “I haven’t gotten news from Whiterun in weeks, woman.” Bjarni wrapped his kinswoman in his mantle.

            “Five days ago, the Stormcloaks launched an attack on Whiterun. They subverted Clan Grey-Mane including a Companion of Jorrvaskr. While the main force burned the crops and blood-eagled every damn farmer they could find, a hand-picked force went after me and the Brotherhood murdered Jarl Balgruuf and his family.” Golden light and chimes shimmered around Laina as she Healed herself. “I guess the Stormsword wasn’t happy Elisif won Balgruuf to the Empire’s side by offering him the High King’s throne.”

            “Balgruuf… High King?” It took Bjarni a few moments to process Laina’s words.

            “Yeah. Elisif figured he’d make a better High King than she would.” Laina sighed. “She’s… not as flighty or stupid as you Stormcloaks claim.”

            “He would have made a great High King,” Bjarni said dully.

            “Yes, he would have. He was a gold-hungry arse but he cared for his people.” Laina removed the mantle and handed it back to him. “Can you say the same about the Old Holds under the Stormsword?”

            Bjarni shook his head mutely. The woman had a point. “What about Talos?”

            _“Fuck Talos._ ” Laina’s voice was suddenly harsh. “In the name of Talos, I was…”

            She silenced herself. “I’ve come and done what I was supposed to do, Bjarni. It’s better we don’t get attached to each other. It’s very likely we’ll be on opposite sides of the war.”

            “I described you to Nenya and she looked sick,” Bjarni said.

            Laina’s smile was sour. “I bet she did. Tell Sigdrifa Stormsword that Aurelia Callaina’s coming for her. Tell her what I did to the Dark Brotherhood. And tell her that she should have left me alone, because a lot of Stormcloaks are going to die before I’m through.”

            Then she vanished and Bjarni heard the slamming of a door.

            Rayya cleared her throat. “The Brotherhood probably has paperwork. We should go through it.”

            “And get some answers from Grandfather,” Bjarni said grimly. He was beginning to have some awful suspicions.


End file.
